BBC Sherlock Blindness
by Meg Hunter
Summary: Sherlock is rendered permanently blind by an explosion and must try to piece his life back together by beginning a new one. John is there with him every step of the way.
1. Waiting

Prologue:

The explosion had come out of now where; a blinding light and deafening sound followed by unendurable pain. Sherlock had missed it – not for the first time in his life – he had missed what was right in front of his face. How had he missed it?

…

John sat patiently by the hospital bed listening to the heart monitor and checking Sherlock's vitals himself every twenty minute or so. He reached out and gently took Sherlock's left wrist. It was pointless, he knew, to do that when the immensely expensive, top-of-the-line, machines surrounding Sherlock's hospital bed were more than capable of detecting whether or not his best friend was alive; but the feel of Sherlock's steady pulse under his finger tips put him at ease. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. With his right hand he absently flipped the pages of a magazine that someone had left on the bed-side table. His mind was blank, and he barely glanced at the pages, but felt that by flipping those flimsy sheets of paper he would manage to feel less concerned and look a little more normal. He had been sitting – unmoving except to use the washroom facilities or get a bite to eat – for five days. He hadn't turned on the tele or read a book, he hadn't even checked his computer. That was when Lestrade had stopped by with a stack of magazines and newspapers to try and keep John sane.

"Have you slept?" The middle-aged inspector had asked, "You look like hell."

"No, and thank you," John said with sarcasm and a small smile.

"I know that you care about him, John, but you don't have to suffer too. He's a big boy and you know he's going to live. You should get some sleep."

"I try," he said honestly, "it's just impossible in here."

"So go home for a couple of hours," Lestrade offered.

John shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"I could stay with him," Lestrade offered, "I'd call if he even twitched."

"That's kind of you," John said sincerely, "But I just can't. I know I won't sleep at home either."

"You'd be surprised, you really look beat," he coaxed taking in the dark circles beneath John's tired blue eyes.

"Thanks anyway," John replied, effectively ending the discussion.

"You really love him don't you?" Lestrade said after a moment of silence in which he had taken a good look at the motionless Sherlock.

"Yes," John replied, not bothering to make the distinction between romantic and brotherly love. In reality, it didn't matter. He loved the big idiot-genius-sociopath-maniac and right now all that mattered was that his life had been in danger.

"He's a lucky man," Lestrade had added.

"Why?" John asked, "Because he survived? Or because he's got a maniac like me here to care about him?"

"Both," the greying man said with a warm smile. "Tell him I stopped by, won't you?"

"Of course," John replied kindly and shook the inspector's hand. That visit had been two days ago.

For being a self-proclaimed sociopath, John reflected, Sherlock certainly did have some good and loyal friends. That had actually been Lestrade's second visit to check up on the man who constantly insulted his intelligence and antagonized his team. Though, John wondered if it was more for himself than Sherlock, since Lestrade hadn't even bothered to ask how the tall, slender, man was doing.

Still, that was a better record than Mycroft. Sherlock's older brother had only come by the hospital once – the day he got John's text. He had come in person to ensure that his little brother would in-fact live – and to see that he had the best doctors and surgeons and equipment that money could buy – and then he had left without so much as a word to John... well almost... "I told you to look out for him," Mycroft had said flatly when John had found him standing in the hall outside Sherlock's hospital room looking through the window at his unconscious and severely injured brother.

John wanted to say something… it hadn't been his fault. How could he possibly be expected to baby-sit a grown, independent, iron-willed man twenty-four-seven? Sherlock had gotten himself into this one without John's knowledge. There was literally nothing he could have done and no way he could have known. But he didn't respond, and Mycroft had simply walked away and not returned since. John imagined that the hospital was keeping the mysteriously important man informed. Heck, he'd probably managed to have the info from the monitors go straight to his mobile.

John leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head. With a sigh, and some slight dizziness, he relaxed again and looked at the serene face of his best friend. The small cuts on his face were healing well, and probably wouldn't even leave a scar – unlike those deep, life-threatening wounds that had resulted when debris from the explosion had ripped into Sherlock's chest. John knew that those would stay with him forever. John felt the pang of guilt again… the one that his mind knew he shouldn't be feeling, but that his emotions refused to let go. Sherlock had gone to the bank alone, he hadn't told John where he was going – or if he had, it was while John had been doing the shopping – and he certainly hadn't told John he was on a case. Why was that? John wondered, but let the unsaid question drop because he would not know the answer until his friend woke up.

Two hours later, John had begin to doze when a slight movement roused him. Sherlock's hand twitched. John had rested his fingers on the man's pulse again when he began to drift off. The feel of the steady heartbeat had soothed his mind and calmed his nerves, then just as sleep was reaching out her elusive, though welcoming, arms to him he felt the tendons in Sherlock's wrist move ever-so-slightly. He snapped awake and stared silently at Sherlock's face. The man's eyes opened. Then closed. They then fluttered open again. He frowned and lifted his right hand to rub them gently. John suddenly became aware of himself and removed his hand from Sherlock's left wrist.

"John?" Sherlock said then, turning to gaze in John's direction… something was definitely wrong. Sherlock's eyes didn't look right… they looked… unfocused, glazed over…almost…dead.

"I'm here, Sherlock," John said suddenly, though it appeared as if Sherlock was looking right at him.

"I think you should call the physician," he said evenly, "I believe I may be blind."


	2. Blindness

John had just sat there, in stunned silence, for a moment looking at his friend and trying to process what he had just heard. Sherlock had said those devastating words so matter-of-factly. Though, he never really was one to get over-excited or emotional unless he felt there was a good reason… he would be waiting for more data… definitive proof that his deduction was accurate. So John did as he was told: "Ok, um… I'll be right back."

Sherlock nodded and remained motionless, like a living statue. He listened as John shuffled out into the hall and spoke quietly with one of the nurses, requesting a doctor right away… "Yes," Sherlock heard his friend's anxious but steady voice say, "he's awake…"

It was a strange sensation… to have one's eyes wide open but to see absolute darkness. Sherlock had been in some pretty dark places in his travels, but never – outside of unconsciousness – had he known blackness so absolute.

John returned and Sherlock heard him pull his chair closer to the bed and sit down.

"How long have I been out?" Sherlock asked then, trying to focus his groggy mind and gather important data. He needed to keep calm.

"About a week," John replied.

"Please be more specific John," Sherlock requested in that same flat tone. "The bomb exploded in the bank at approximately 4:52pm on Friday, May 25th. What is today's date and time?"

"Well it's good to know that your mind is working," John said with a smile. "It's 3pm on Friday, June 1st."

"Ah, so it has been almost exactly a week…" he said more to himself than to John.

"Did Lestrade catch Millstone?"

"Who?"

"The bomber. The one who was destroying phone booths and the like… up until he escalated one week ago," he said matter-of-factly as if John should know.

"Um… I don't know… there was a body found at the bank. The tellers were ok because they were behind their desks, and there was no one else in the bank at the time… it was – "

"Closing time, I am aware," Sherlock finished for him, "and the parcel never made it past the threshold. I caught up to him in the glass entrance hall by the pin machine."

"So, do you think that body was his?" John asked momentarily losing himself in the mystery of Sherlock's last case.

"I won't know until I get a DNA sample… but it is highly probable… I don't remember him leaving the scene before the bomb went off."

The doctor arrived then, before John could ask why Sherlock hadn't let him know what he had been up to and where he had gone the day Sherlock was injured. John spent the next two hours in a state of complete and utter anxiety as doctors tested Sherlock's vision and completed complicated tests, scans and blood work. Sherlock remained stoic throughout the entire ordeal, and that made John even more anxious… as if he needed to make up for Sherlock's lack of worry. His leg pained him and he kept absently opening his right hand to relieve tension only to curl it into a tight fist again at his side. He wondered what exactly was going through that man's head.

…

The results for the tests were thorough and every possible option had been explored as to the exact cause of Sherlock's blindness. Of course his tests had been pushed to the front of the line, and so they received the results as quickly as was humanly possible. He was told at midnight when he demanded – having already done the mental calculations as to how long such procedures would take – that the result be given to him without delay.

"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes," the doctor finished after a detailed and technical explanation had been given. "If you would like to speak to a counsellor – "

"Thank you doctor," Holmes replied sharply, dismissing the middle-aged man with a simple: "That will be all."

Dr. Stevenson raised an eyebrow and glanced at Watson before leaving the room.

"Sherlock… I – " John began but Sherlock held up a hand to silence him.

The tall man pressed the tips of his fingers together and then pressed them to his lips. He closed his eyes and let out a long slow breath. Then he just sat there, frozen in this attitude of prayer.

John was alarmed, but said nothing. Sherlock needed this moment… he had to collect his thoughts.

He was completely immovable for over an hour.

"Sherlock… say something," John coaxed finally when the stillness was killing him and he thought he might have to scream to release the tension in his body and mind.

"There is nothing to say John," Sherlock replied then, turning his head in John's direction.

John let out a breath of relief. "Here, have some water," he poured the liquid into a paper cup and went to hand it to Sherlock. Sherlock clumsily pushed John's hand away as if the motion had been offensive – nearly spilling the contents onto the bed.

"I'm not thirsty," he stated coldly.

"Ok," John said meekly and put the cup on the bedside table, "Just let me know if you need anything."

"When was the last time you slept John?" Sherlock asked suddenly, still gazing in John's direction. Seeing those usually bright and intelligent eyes look through him like that… unseeing… was unsettling for John, and he was secretly glad that Sherlock could not deduce his feelings at this moment.

"I dunno… I've snached a bit here and there…"

"You should rest," he stated, then as an afterthought he added, "I'll be alright, I won't leave the room."

"Will you sleep too then?" John asked suspiciously.

"If that's what you want me to do," Sherlock acquiesced.

"Good then," John said, still a little skeptical but happy nonetheless. "I'll rest too."

Sherlock nodded, and John settled deeper into his chair.

"That's can't be very comfortable," Sherlock said suddenly after a few moments of silence, effectively snapping a sleepy John awake.

"It's fine."

"You should go home."

"I don't want to go home."

"Why ever not? I'm a grown man. I'm fine to be left alone in a hospital overnight. I don't need a baby-sitter."

"Sherlock please," John almost begged, "Just drop it ok?"

"Fine."

Sherlock listened and waited. He listened to the soft breathing of his best friend. He waited until the breathing slowed to a steady, sleepy, pace and then he acted. Slowly and silently he eased himself further up the bed so that he was completely sitting up with a big pillow stuffed behind his back and then reached back to untie his hospital gown. He slipped the open-backed garment off of his shoulders and let it fall down to his lap on top of the sheet. Then he gingerly ran his hands down his chest feeling each unfamiliar grove in his soft skin. The injuries stung with the contact. Three major lacerations, approximately three to four inches long, several minor surface wounds… severe pain in the left abdomen… how deep had the injury gone? It was obvious he had some internal trauma… and was that twinge a cracked rib? He would ask the doctor for a more complete analysis of his injuries later, when John wasn't around. That is, if John ever decided to act like a normal human being and go feed himself. He smiled when the thought crossed his mind… he sounded like John. But for Sherlock, not eating or sleeping were pretty normal occurrences, they were not normal behaviours for John. Sherlock didn't like that John was causing himself to suffer over Sherlock's own stupidity – and stupidity it was. What else could he call it? He'd gone to intercept a potential bomber completely on his own without letting anyone know and then had failed to notice the bomb! Him, the most observant man in the word – or so everyone says – _he_ had failed to notice the most important object in the scenario.

He unconsciously leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands and his elbows on his legs, but then snapped back to himself as the movement had caused a searing pain to run down his back. He suppressed a groan… more stitches… had he just pulled one? He had pulled several judging by the pain he was feeling. He wondered how bad the injuries looked. He had never really been concerned with his appearance, but had also always been aware that others found his 'flawless' – in the technical sense of the word… having no major blemish, birthmark or scar – physique incredibly appealing. What would his damaged, naked, torso look like now?

From his chair, John stared silently at Sherlock's marred body. Dark bruises had formed all over his chest and stomach and the cuts were still quite alarming to look at. It would take a long while for such deep injuries to fully heal. He suppressed a gulp of surprise when, slowly, Sherlock moved forward – his face contorting in pain – to reveal the damage that had been done to his previously perfect back.


	3. Home

John continued to stare silently as Sherlock sighed and felt around for the sleeves on the flimsy hospital garment. He slipped it on - with some difficulty, as it caused him pain to lift his arms so high – and re-tied the garment.

He had just begun to doze off when Sherlock had moved and woken him again. At first, he had watched the dark haired man in a half-awakened trance, and then had just thought about asking him if he needed anything, when Sherlock slowly started removing his hospital gown. John had not dared invade Sherlock's privacy to look at his wounds before now and, though he should have said something to let Sherlock know that he was no longer sleeping, he found himself watching speechlessly as his friend removed his clothing and gently ran his fingertips along each wound. It was worse than he had expected. The shards of glass from the bank windows had ripped through Sherlock's jacket and shirt and sliced deep into both his back and chest. A particularly long shard had been lodged deep in his right shoulder – John had heard the doctor say to Mycroft – but no permanent damage had been done to the tendons or affected muscle. John knew that most of the wounds he was not seeing were superficial, but still, the sight of Sherlock in that state alarmed him.

After Sherlock slipped back into his gown he turned and felt for the ledge of the bedside table. John watched as his friend's long slender fingers felt around the smooth surface for. . .the water glass? His face showed great concentration, but also discomfort, as he twisted awkwardly to reach it.

"Here, Sherlock, let me," he offered.

Sherlock started slightly at the sound of John's voice, but recovered quickly. "No, John, I can do it," he stated stubbornly and at that moment knocked over the cup so that water poured down the side of the cart and all over the floor. Sherlock cursed under his breath.

John picked up the cup and refilled it with water from the jug. "It's ok to let me help you, you know," he said flatly without even a hint of annoyance; he was very careful to guard his tone against being too gentle was as well, knowing that Sherlock would only associate that tone with pity – an emotion he hated more than most. "At least until your eyesight improves," he added without thinking.

"My eyesight will never return," Sherlock stated evenly as if he was asking John to turn the channel on the tele.

"You don't know that for sure," John said as he tried handing the cup to Sherlock. He knew very well that the chances were slim, still, the idea that Sherlock could be left helpless like that was unacceptable to him. "The doctor seemed to think that maybe with surgery..."

Sherlock huffed and turned to gaze blindly in John's direction. He did not, however, reach for the cup that John had placed near to his hand. John moved a bit closer and their knuckles brushed.

"Put it back on the table," Sherlock ordered and John complied. Sherlock reached out again, even more slowly this time and gently grasped the cup and raised it to his lips.

"You are a doctor John. You of all people should know better than to give false hope," then, as an afterthought, he added, "And don't insult my intelligence by pretending that you have any scientific evidence for the ridiculous statement you just made."

"You're right," John said defeated. "I don't. I guess I just want to make you feel better."

"Then be honest with me," Sherlock state sharply, he was becoming frustrated. "I don't need your pity." He snarled the last word as if it were a filthy curse that left a bad taste on his mouth.

The words stung, but John understood where they were coming from and tried not to take them to heart.

"Two detached retinas. That's what the doctor said," Sherlock barrelled on with his razor-sharp, no-nonsense, tone, "There will be no more talk of getting better... and no surgery. This is how life is now. I will just have to accept it because attempting to do otherwise would only be a waste of time."

"Ok," was all John could manage. His throat had gone suddenly dry and he felt a pang of disappointment deep in his stomach. What he hadn't said to Sherlock was that he had spoken so carelessly because he desperately wanted the unlikely possibility of a full recovery to be true.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day in silent – almost comatose – state of contemplation. John sat with him, silently watching the motionless detective and wondered, yet again, what was going through that brilliant mind. He left Sherlock's side only to get a sandwich from the cafeteria or to occasionally use the men's room. He had just settled down with a book that he was pretending to read when suddenly Sherlock swung his long legs off of the bed and sat facing John.

"Sherlock? What are you..." John began but stopped when Sherlock stood up. He wobbled slightly, seeming entirely unsteady. John instinctively reached out to him. The sudden contact of John's hand on his arm made the taller man tense and shove John's arm away violently.

"Don't touch me," he said in a tone that John had never heard him use before. It was dark and sprang from some hidden well of anger deep within Sherlock.

"Sorry," John fumbled, "I should have realized..."

Completely ignoring him, Sherlock took a tentative step forward. The tips of his long fingers brushing the bed as he slowly made his way around it. He was tracing it's shape and using it as a point of contact to steady and orient himself in this unfamiliar room. His dull grey eyes stared ahead, almost unblinking... as if straining to see in the darkness, and his lips quivered slightly. John realized then that Sherlock was counting his steps; his lips were silently and unconsciously mouthing the words: four...five...six...

"Is there a washroom in this room John?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes," John said quickly.

"Where is it?"

"Straight ahead of you, about five or six paces."

He watched as Sherlock disappeared into the adjoining bathroom and returned a couple of moments later. In silence he returned to his bed - a little more quickly than he had left it - and, after a time, drifted off to sleep.

...

"You can go home now Mr. Holmes," doctor Stevenson announced after checking Sherlock's vitals one last time and examining his eyes again with a bright light.

John felt sick with worry when the focused, piercing, beam of light hit Sherlock's unresponsive pupils. John knew that no one on earth could possibly understand what Sherlock had lost. His most defining feature was his brilliant mind and it had resulted in his unique career based around his science of deduction. Without his eyes, how would he be able to catch those tiny clues that only Sherlock was quick and observant enough to see? How would he solve cases now? John wondered if those were the very questions that had been surging through Sherlock's mind during his long hours of silence over the past couple of days.

Before he left the doctor had offered Sherlock a white cane which he scornfully refused. John took it, mouthing a silent "thank you" and offered Sherlock his arm, "Here, let me at least help you navigate out of here." To his surprise Sherlock reached out and took his arm and then slid his left hand up to John's right shoulder and stood very close to his side.

"Now get me out of this place before I go mad," Sherlock said quietly, but with a sense of real urgency in his voice as if a mental snap was an imminent threat.

John slowly escorted the taller man to the elevator.

After navigating their way out to the car park and carefully getting Sherlock into a cab they began the short and silent trip home.

...

The cab stopped right in front of the door of 221B and John paid. For the first time in his memory Sherlock simply sat and waited for him to complete the transaction – drumming his fingers on his leg impatiently. John got out of the cab and Sherlock scooted over into John's seat, reaching his hand up to feel the roof of the cab before ducking his tall frame and meticulously stepping out of the car. John watched every slight movement Sherlock made, biting his tongue to avoid an outburst of warning when Sherlock's head came quite close to hitting the door-frame. _Sherlock wants to do this himself_... John repeated in his head for the fifth time since they'd left Sherlock's hospital room. _No, he **needs** to do this himself..._ his mind corrected.

"John?" Sherlock said expectantly.

"Yep, here," John said moving closer to the taller man so that their arms brushed. He stood and waited while Sherlock gently laid his hand on his right shoulder and then he moved forward to the front door. "There's two steps here, Sherlock," he reminded quietly.

"Yes, I am aware," Sherlock replied without sarcasm.

John fumbled with the keys and unlocked the door. Once across the threshold Sherlock turned and gently swung the door closed and locked it from the inside... something he had always left John to do in the past... he could never be bothered with locks, doors, or paying cabby drivers in the past. They walked slowly down the hall. "Ok we're at the stairs... how do you want to do this?" John asked, eyeing their long staircase. It suddenly looked steep and dangerous to him.

"There are 28 stairs and a strong wooden banister... you go first, I will hold onto the banister." Sherlock dictated, but it was almost as if he was talking to himself.

"Maybe you should go first... just in case – " John began, but stopped before he could say: _"Just in case you fall." _

"I'll be fine John," he said with a hint of annoyance. Sherlock hated to seem weak... and he wasn't used to needing help or having anyone worry about him. "Surely muscle memory alone would allow me to make a trip up these stairs without assistance."

John suddenly had an image of Sherlock bounding up the staircase three steps at a time as he usually did when they were rushing in to grab something essential to a case.

"Ok." John began walking up the steps at a slower-than-normal pace – placing extra emphasis on the creaky parts of the stairs so that Sherlock could hear where he was. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder until he was almost at the top. When he did look, the scene behind him almost broke his heart. Sherlock reached out and felt for the banister, but he was too far from the staircase. He took a step forward, but his stride was too long and he kicked the bottom step, stumbled, and then miraculously caught himself with the banister. Then, righting himself, he took a tentative step onto the first stair. He then brought his right foot up to the second stair. Sliding his hand up the banister with a firm grasp he began the long climb. Just as before, John saw his friend's lips move ever-so-slightly as he counted each step. Once he was half-way up the staircase he began to get more confident... too confident. John gulped in a sharp intake of breath as Sherlock – who hadn't raised his foot quite high enough – caught the lip of the stair and tripped, hitting his shin on the next stair and landing on his knee. Still grasping the banister tightly, he managed not to fall backwards. He mumbled something under his breath and cursed a couple of times. John resisted the urge to ask if he was ok. Sherlock slowly raised himself up and stood there for a moment looking lost.

"Sherlock?" John asked as if he had missed what had just happened and didn't know why his friend was taking so long.

"I lost count..." he mumbled to himself with another curse.

"What?" John asked.

"I lost count," he growled.

"Oh... well, you're..." John counted the stairs between them... "eight more to the top."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied softly, and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

John's heart ached for this stubborn, independent, maddening man. Sherlock hated asking for help. So John was just going to have to provide it to the best of his ability without waiting for the man to ask for it. However, he was also going to have to learn how to stand back and let Sherlock figure some things out for himself.

John unlocked their flat door and waited patiently for Sherlock to climb the last eight stairs before he moved another step. "Well, here we are," he said to the tall... shaky? man beside him. To his suprise Sherlock was, indeed, visibly trembling. John couldn't tell if it was from fear, pain, or exhaustion – or perhaps a bit of all three – but it unsettled him. He suddenly had the urge to hug Sherlock and tell him it was going to be ok, and then sit him down and make him a hot cup of tea – but that, too, he managed to suppress.

"After you," John offered when Sherlock didn't move.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it John?" Sherlock said then, his baritone voice quiet and uncertain, his question sounded more like a statement of fact.

John shook his head, "It will take time Sherlock."

"Time," he repeated the word solemnly as if it were a death sentence. Then, taking a breath, he stepped back into their flat.


	4. True Friendship

The stumble on the stairs had not only hurt, it had also scared Sherlock. It shook his confidence. How had he made such a silly mistake? Why could he not judge how high he was lifting his foot? He felt his body trembling all the way up the last eight stairs. Never before had time felt so long.

"So, do you want to settle in and have some tea?" John asked once he stepped into the flat. It smelled familiar... it felt safe. Sherlock had never consciously noticed the particular smell of their flat before... a mix of old books, chemicals, tea, and something he couldn't quite place...

"No. Thank you, John. I would rather go to my room," he said kindly. He suddenly felt a rush of appreciation for John, but really just needed a moment to collect his thoughts and calm his body.

"Alright then, I'll walk with you, shall I?"

"No," Sherlock heard himself reply automatically. Why had he done that? It would have been much more logical – not to mention easier and faster – to let John escort him. "I can find it myself."

"Well, just go slow then," John warned, "There's a lot of stuff on the floor... I haven't been back to tidy up."

"If you had tidied up, I would have yelled at you," Sherlock said with a half-hearted smile. He often berated john with insults when the man misplaced his things in an attempt to 'tidy up' the flat.

Though he couldn't see it, he imagined that John smiled in response.

Sherlock wandered slowly towards his room, using the wall as a point of reference and trying not to trip over the piles of papers and books that he knew were scattered everywhere. He felt John's eyes on him the entire time and when he finally made it to the door of his own room he quickly slipped inside and closed the barrier between them.

He leaned down, feeling for the edge of his bed. After finding it he collapsed upon it – hearing a loud crunch as he lay back upon a bunch of files and paperwork he had been working on before the whole ordeal at the bank. Anyone looking at him would have said that he was staring at the ceiling very intently, but in reality all he was doing was thinking. His hands were resting upon his chest; he felt his own rapid heartbeat slow as he focused his breathing and tried to calm himself. He closed his eyes, though he didn't really know why... it made no difference... not like before when he could do that to shut out the world and focus his thoughts. Now the world had shut him out, and he closed his eyes to remember what it looked like.

Part of him was relieved that John hadn't seen him fall, or had had the courtesy to say nothing. He hated that anyone – especially John – should see him like this. He knew that thought was completely irrational – illogical even. John was perhaps the only person in the world, next to Mycroft, who gave a damn about him without hoping for some kind of selfish gain: the police force put up with him for is mind, Molly was only kind to him because she was hoping for romantic reciprocation, even Mrs. Hudson turned a blind eye to his antics because of monetary gain. But John... John just liked him. John genuinely cared, without ever requesting – or expecting – any kind of actual action or duty on Sherlock's part. Heck, John did everything for Sherlock. The shopping, the laundry, the dishes... John cleaned up Sherlock's messes, put up with his experiments, he made sure the man ate, slept and – for the most part – tried to ensure that Sherlock didn't get himself killed. Yet, never once had John ever asked him for anything... sure he grumbled about the shopping, or needed a bit of cash once in a while, but he always insisted on paying Sherlock back and – though Sherlock would probably do it if John waited long enough – he always caved first and did the chores and shopping on his own. In reality, Sherlock had no way of understanding why John stayed. If he were to be brutally honest with himself, in this relationship, _he_ was using _John_. It had never bothered him before, the idea that he could be manipulative – that he used people. He had done it many times during cases without a second thought and certainly without remorse. But the realization that he had been this selfish with John bothered him. Now that he was trapped like this, he was going to need John more than ever... and John needed to understand that. He needed to understand that his help was appreciated, or else, Sherlock feared, he would leave him for good. Sherlock made a mental note to be kinder to John, and more thoughtful of his feelings if possible.

With that resolved, his thoughts drifted elsewhere; like what he was going to do next. Suddenly he felt dirty... like the smell of the hospital had followed him home, clinging to his clothes and seeping into his pores. He needed a shower. He slowly sat up – the largest wounds stinging with the movement – and gingerly made his way to his, small, on-suit bathroom.

...

John heard the water turn on and the pipes creak and grumble as hot liquid ran its way to Sherlock's shower. He boiled the kettle and settled in with his lap-top and a tea. He checked his messages but didn't really feel like replying to any of them. He read his last blog entry, and then snapped the computer shut. For some reason, he felt that there was no way he would ever be able to write about this... he just couldn't tell the world that Sherlock was... injured... He couldn't even allow himself to think of the real word...blind. He couldn't tell them that he would never fully recover. John wondered if he should mention that Sherlock had recently solved a case, but didn't bother.

A violent and cascading sound – much like a small avalanche – made John jump.

"Damn it!" John heard Sherlock curse, "... John!"

"Are you ok Sherlock?" He asked instinctively, jumping up out of his comfy chair. What in the world had Sherlock knocked over? Books? A lamp? Bottles of chemicals? What did that man keep in his room anyway?

"Can you come here please?" Sherlock's quiet and defeated tone alarmed John far more than the loud noise had and he had to force himself to breath normally and not to run into the room. "What is it?" he asked before he entered the room – trying to seem far less concerned then he actually was. What he saw shocked and upset him.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed – dressed in nothing but a towel – his dark, wet, locks hung limply around his down-turned face. He was resting his right elbow on his leg and rubbing his forehead as if he had a pounding headache. His marred back hunched over in defeat.

"I can't find anything to wear," he said quietly. He reminded John of a small, lost child. "Could you...?"

"Of course, just a sec..." John said pulling himself together and stepping over the pile of books that Sherlock must have knocked over in his attempt to get to his wardrobe. "No wonder you can't find anything in here... it's a mess!" John said lightly.

"Perhaps you could help me tidy it a little," Sherlock said then, gazing in John's direction.

"Sure," he said, surprised by the detective's statement. "What do you want to wear? Pj's?"

"What time is it?"

"Um..." John glanced at his watch, "it's still early, just after noon. Did you want to nap?" Did he seriously just ask that? Sherlock never napped! But then... Sherlock wasn't acting much like Sherlock was he?

"No, grab my usual outfit. I have some work to do."

John sifted through the closet and pulled out a pair of black pants and Sherlock's deep-purple, silk, button-down shirt. He brought the ensemble over to the bed and placed it beside Sherlock. "Here you go," he said kindly, and then added... "Do you think you'll need some help?"

"No," Sherlock said without bitterness. "Thank you, John."

"No problem," he said honestly, "I've got tea waiting in the living room. If you need anything, just shout."

Sherlock nodded. John took one last glance at his friend's thin, defined frame. He's skin was so white, and his build was more like that of a teenager who had just finished a growth spurt. He was too thin, John decided after tearing his gaze away and leaving the room. _It's no wonder, he refused to eat the hospital food,_ John thought to himself. His own stomach rumbled a complaint and he decided to see what he could order in for the both of them to eat.

A thought hit John just as he stepped into the kitchen - the counters of which were still overflowing with Sherlock's unfinished experiments._ Wait a minute... did Sherlock just say he had work to do? What on earth could be so important that he had to start working on it_ now?


	5. The Work Begins

John didn't have to wait long to find out exactly what work Sherlock needed to do. The man appeared triumphantly in the doorway of his room fully dressed and looking like his old self again. John was about to say something when Sherlock held up his hands like a stop sign – clearly expecting John to say something and thus effectively silencing him before he did. He then reached out to the door frame and began walking along the perimeter of the room, sliding his hand along the wall for guidance and support as he did so. He stumbled over piles of books and artifacts that had been once haphazardly thrown in their various places by him and never again – or only rarely – moved.

After a while, Sherlock learned to slide his foot along rather than take his regular long strides, to avoid tripping and losing count. Each time he came into contact with a new pile of things he gently lowered himself – his left hand forever on the wall –and with his right would feel the objects on the top of the pile, before moving on. Once he had walked the full perimeter of the room, he did the exact same thing to the kitchen, the bathroom and even John's bedroom; committing their exact dimensions to memory. All the while John sat in his chair, or hovered in the hall, or stood in the dead-center of the room, watching him.

Sherlock returned to the living room – his hand never leaving the wall – and stood hesitantly in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting area. "John?"

"Yes?" John said from where he was standing – halfway between the sofa and the TV.

"I am going to need your help."

"Ok, what do you need?" The army doctor replied without hesitation.

"I need you to move _that _pile of books," he said pointing with surprising precision, "to _that_ bookshelf."

John did as he was told. This exercise continued for a short while: Sherlock would move to a new part of the room and dictate to John what needed to be moved and where to put it.

"There," John huffed as he dropped a particularly large pile onto Sherlock's desk, "Done."

"Good," Sherlock said absently, but then added, "Thank you."

His new-found manners surprised John, but he certainly wasn't complaining. It was nice to be thanked every once in a while.

Sherlock was still hovering in the exact same place where he had stopped. His left hand was still pressed up against the wall.

"What now?" John prompted after a moment.

"Now, I cross the room," Sherlock said quietly.

It hadn't occurred to John just how difficult that task would be. Sherlock would have to concentrate fully in order to orient himself in the middle of a room. "Do you want me to walk it with you the first time?" he offered.

"No, I want to do it myself."

"Well at least use the walking stick that Dr. Stevenson gave you... it will help you – "

"I didn't take a walking stick," Sherlock said flatly.

John realized his mistake but continued, "I accepted it when you didn't. Let me get it for you..."

"No. John."

"Sherlock, we're in the safety and privacy of our own home! No one will see you except me, and I swear I won't tell anyone – not that it is anything to be ashamed of... but since you're so concerned..."

"I said no," Sherlock's patience was wearing thin and John could sense the change.

"Ok," he said in defeat.

Still, Sherlock didn't move. He stood there, bracing himself for the plunge into deep and, frankly, frightening waters. _This is just the flat,_ he reminded himself. He dug deep into his memory and pictured the placement of the furniture. He recalled the exact dimensions of the parameter and came to a rough estimate as to the placing of each object. Then, slowly, he let go of the wall and took a step forward. He felt instantly lost, but shoved down the irrational feeling of panic and focused on the layout of the room. He wandered very slowly until his leg came in contact with the television. He then worked his way to the sofa, then his desk, then John's chair, walking in the space between each piece of furniture and mapping its distance from the others. He felt John's eyes on him the entire time, and wondered absently what John was thinking… what did he look like right now? What expression was he wearing? Was he impressed? Worried? Upset at Sherlock's stubbornness?

After he mapped the room, he crossed it diagonally twice and then returned to the place where he had begun with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

John shook his head at the lunatic, "Well done, Sherlock," he said honestly. He was truly amazed by this man.

Sherlock then repeated these actions again in every room of the house – even beginning to memorize the placement of objects as well as furniture. He ran his hands over the kitchen counter tops, he walked to the island and – almost fondly - traced the shape of each beaker and glass piece of his chemistry set, he remembered the placing of the kettle, the microwave, the sink and stove. He made mental note of John's habitual "mug spots" where cold, half-drunk, mugs of tea were often sitting: one beside the sink, the other on the coffee table, and one – always full and almost never touched – placed habitually on Sherlock's desk – just in case Sherlock ever decided he actually wanted some.

After finishing up on the main level, Sherlock made his way up to the last place that he needed to familiarize himself with.

John's room – the one place in the flat that Sherlock had not yet managed to fill with "case clutter," as John called it – was kept bare with military precision.

"It is always like this?" Sherlock asked after he had crossed the room twice and felt every surface. He had never bothered to spend much time in John's room. There had never really been a reason to.

"You mean neat and clean?" John teased, "Yes."

"That's not the way I would describe it."

"Oh? How would you describe it?"

"Bare. Devoid of any personality. Lonely," Sherlock trailed, "But I suppose I should have suspected such minimalistic behaviour from a military man. You're rigid training and experience has probably left the need for material things low on your list of priorities."

"I value space, tidiness, and human relationship over things," John said.

Sherlock didn't reply, he just stood there silently surveying the room with his mind... committing every detail to memory: the bed, neatly made, the simple, bare furniture the lack of... "Photographs," he said more to himself.

"Sorry, what?"

"You said that you value human relationships over things... but you have no photographs. Highly unusual, don't you think?" Sherlock turned to his friend. "Most people do you know... have photographs cluttering up things – sentiment." He added the last word frankly as if it were the one word responsible for explaining all human behaviour.

"Alright, stop right there, Sherlock. I'm not a case. You don't get to psychoanalyze or deduce me," John said as the tone in Sherlock's voice sent up warning flags. He was beginning to get nosey, just like he did when he'd found a new puzzle.

"Your romantic relationships also often fail," Sherlock continued.

"Thanks for that," John said sarcastically.

"You do not even have an amicable relationship with your sister... in fact the only true, constant, relationship that you have managed to maintain, or value, is ours."

This declaration hung in the air between them. Though neither of them knew why, it had come as a bit of a shock. It was true... John was as hopeless at sustaining relationships as Sherlock was in forming them. Why was that?

"Ok, I said enough, Sherlock," John said seriously then, "You've had your fun, now get out of my room."

Sherlock instantly obeyed. He turned to the door frame and headed towards the stairs. "You have a nice room, John," he said over his shoulder as if trying to salvage the situation with a compliment. "Very... easy to remember."

"Yes, yes," John said brushing the comment off, "Do you want me to turn on the tele? We could order in some dinner and – "

"No, I don't think so," Sherlock cut him off. It wasn't any fun watching tv when all you could do was listen. The real lies people told were revealed through their actions... you couldn't criticize their actions when you couldn't see them, and, in reality, Sherlock had only ever watched TV to work on his deduction skills. "I have more work to do," he added.

...

The worlds of touch and sound, taste and smell were ones that Sherlock had always tried to make use of – even when he could see. He has always been aware that his other senses were also very important to solving cases... especially the sense of smell. However, now that he had lost his sight, he knew that his other senses would be trying to compensate. Therefore, he needed to get to work as soon as possible and train them to become his eyes. He didn't want to lose a moment of precious time. There were exactly five ways for the human body to collect data – he had merely lost one of them; he was eternally grateful that the blast had not also damaged his hearing. He returned to the kitchen and began pulling things out of the fridge and the cupboards.

"Sherlock? What on earth are you doing?"

"I have to get to work, John," he said while placing a heavy jug of soap on the counter, "I need to train my senses to understand the world the way that my eyes used to."

"And you have to do this right now? You just got home!"

"There's no time to waste, John. A case could some up at any moment and I need to be ready."

John didn't have the heart to tell Sherlock that he had told Lestrade not to contact them for any reason other than a pleasant social call. He didn't want the frustration of being unable to work on a case to upset Sherlock.

"Can you just relax for a few minutes?" he pleaded.

The request fell upon deaf ears.

...

...

...Author's Note...

I don't usually leave comments in my stories as I find them distracting, but I wanted to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you who favorited my story or took the time to leave me a review. I really appreciate it and I find your support incredibly motivating. This is the first time I've written a fanfiction in over three years and, thanks to the wonderful feedback I have received so far, I have the confidence to keep writing. I will continue to try and update daily as I am really having a lot of fun bringing these characters, as I see them, to life. Thank you so much again!


	6. Honesty

A week later, life in 221B had found some semblance of normalcy. Sherlock had gone back to being much the same as before, except that now – rather than spending his time reading, researching, or conducting experiments – he spent hours a day training his senses to identify rare substances. Some days it would be his sense of smell that he would test with subtle scents and offensive odors alike. John hated those days because he would be required to suffer the mix of scents – both offensive and inoffensive – until Sherlock finished and only then would John be allowed to open up all of the windows and air out the flat. Other days Sherlock tested his sense of touch. He would run his fingers over small substances such as saw-dust, or powdered rust, or sand, or glass shards (this last one was something John did not at all like and he was very vocal in telling Sherlock so) and John would have to verify the results and tell Sherlock whether or not he had identified the powered substance or tiny object correctly. Sherlock experimented with liquids, solids and powders – everything was fair game. John had ran around the flat on the first day of these experiments disposing of corrosive and toxic liquid cleaners so that curious Sherlock wouldn't get himself into too much trouble.

"John," Sherlock said early one morning.

"Yes, Sherlock," a sleepy John replied from his favorite chair in the living room. Sherlock had not gone to bed and was sitting on a stool in the kitchen listening to different sounds that a program on his computer was generating. John vaguely remembered Sherlock waking him up – shortly after John had gone up to bed – to drag him downstairs and force him to find and download a program that would possess a diverse range of sound-bites for him to listen to.

"We need to go out," he said shutting the lid of the laptop with an air of distain.

"What? Why?" John struggled to wake himself up. With a sigh he heaved himself out of the chair, wandered into the kitchen, and turned on the kettle.

"Because I am out of things to do... I need to test my senses out there. I need to assault them with an entire mixture of_ real_ sounds and smells and see how I fair." He had emphasised the word 'real' because the computer generated sounds that John had managed to find and download had an unmistakable electronic buzz to them and were largely unrealistic.

"No, you need to sleep and eat," John had replied. This comment was along the lines of the arguments he had made last night before he had finally given up waiting on the lunatic to finish his testing and get some rest.

"I'm ready John," he pushed.

"I don't care," John said with his back to his friend as he poured his coffee, "I don't believe you and I'm not taking you out of the flat. At least not until you get some sleep. You look terrible."

"If I promise to sleep will you take me out?"

"We'll see Sherlock."

Sherlock had managed to stumble into the shower and to find the pajamas that John had laid out on his bed for him last night in case of the off chance that Sherlock had wanted to go to bed. Then he crashed on top of the bed and slept for the rest of the day. While John was happy that Sherlock had listened to him, this incredibly long nap was partially a bad thing... it had completely messed up Sherlock's sense of time as well as aided in altering up his, already strange, sleeping pattern so that he was almost entirely nocturnal. However, after two more nights and days of little sleep, this no longer mattered.

Rather than going out, John had managed to convince Sherlock to organize his room and closet (the only part of the house that had not been touched on the first day – probably because it was the least-used room in the flat). In reality, John did most of the organizing and Sherlock just sat on the bed and dictated where to put things. This newly cleaned and organised room ensured that Sherlock could easily find things and dress himself without frustration or injury. They had even colour coded his closet so that he would be able to choose, simply by placement of certain colours, what exact outfit he wanted to wear.

Sherlock then returned to his experimenting and testing, and every time John went out to the store Sherlock asked him to bring home something that wasn't on the list for him to identify. John would arrive and Sherlock would hover over the shopping bags on the counter, pulling out each item, touching and smelling, and occasionally tasting them before John would stash them away in the tidy fridge or cupboard.

The newly organized house had surprised John the first couple of times he had returned from shopping. He subconsciously expected to return to the way it had been before Sherlock's injury. It had never been this tidy... in fact, even the first time he had seen the flat it had been full of the clutter of Sherlock's things. The military side of him loved the change, but the sentimental side of him hated it. As unbelievable as it seemed, he wanted the clutter back. He wanted their old life back. He wanted to come home to a mess because it would mean that Sherlock could see again and everything would be exactly as it had been.

John had always been a little hesitant to leave Sherlock alone in the flat. In the back of his mind, he had always wondered if the flat would still be there when he got back. Now, he didn't worry about the flat. He worried about Sherlock's safety. What if he tripped on the carpet? Or fell down the stairs? What if he managed to injure himself with one of his experiments while John as away? Every minute spent outside the door of the flat was a minute spent in almost constant anxiety over his friend's safety and, therefore, he kept his shopping close to home and complete it as quickly and efficiently as possible. He had never really worried about Sherlock's safety before, it had always been a given that the man could survive anything – especially after the fall. But things had changed now, John felt that – even if Sherlock didn't want to admit it – he needed someone to look after him. He needed John there to look after him. He needed someone to cared abotu him to make sure that he didn't get hurt.

By the end of the week Sherlock's mania was beginning to eb. Sherlock was losing focus and getting confused and distracted by all of the different sensations he was trying to experience and remember. "You can't catalogue every experience in the word in a couple of days, Sherlock, you need to take a break. Pace yourself," John said after Sherlock let out a short string of curses after he had gotten yet another answer wrong. He was moving too quickly and pushing himself far too hard. He was also getting bored with the items in the flat, he wanted to go out and explore the city. This, john felt, was not yet a good idea. John began collecting the petri dishes, which were filled with several different powdered baking ingredients, and dumping their contents into the bin.

"Put those back," Sherlock ordered.

"No," John replied stubbornly, "You need a break and if you won't take it yourself, I'll have to force you to."

"John, put them back now," Sherlock's tone had turned ugly. "I'm not finished."

"Oh, yes, you are."

Sherlock tried to get up off the stool, but knocked over some glass containers with his arm and they shattered all over the floor. He cursed then – loudly enough, John was certain, for Mrs. Hudson to hear down in her flat – and slammed his hands down on the countertop. John was startled by the outburst, but bit back a stinging retort about Sherlock's immaturity when he saw the distress clearly etched upon his friend's face. His heart went out to his friend, and he felt a pang of guilt at his own actions.

"Sherlock," he began softly, "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Sherlock snapped back.

"For... _this_... for everything. I'm sorry that things are the way they are. And, though I'm trying to understand how you must be feeling, I can't let you ruin your health and distress yourself over something that you can't force. You need time."

"I don't have time."

"Yes you do, there is no need to push this... why the rush?"

"I need to get back to work."

"It's ok, if it's the money you're worried about, it's no problem. I took paid holiday from work last week, and I'm going back soon..."

"No, John, I _need_ the work or else I am going to go mad."

"Well, I'm sorry, but you can't go back to work, Sherlock. You just can't. Not like this."

"Like what?"

"You're not ready," John hedged.

"But I will be just as soon as you let me finish my research – "

"Sherlock listen to yourself!"

"I don't understand, John," he said helplessly.

"No, I don't think that you do," John agreed, "You haven't considered what it will be like returning to detective work... it's not ever going to be the same..."

"Yes it will, it will just be... different."

"Sherlock, I hate to be harsh, but your science of deduction is almost entirely based upon what you see. Have you even taken a moment to consider what that means?"

"I just need a new approach... I can revamp my theory if I just get enough data..."

"You're probably right Sherlock," John assented, not wanting to crush his friend's hopes altogether, "And I honestly believe that you will find a way to be who you are and to do what you love, but you are not going to be successful until you accept what has happened to you. You have to accept that there are going to be limitations. You are not superman. You are going to have to change your life-style pretty significantly and right now that is the most important thing. You need to get comfortable in your new skin. The cases can wait."

"No they can't," the younger man replied stubbornly. "And I have already accepted what has happened, John, I – "

John shook his head in frustration as Sherlock spoke, "You are completely in denial," he said with a mixture of defeat, disbelief and exasperation.

"What?"

"You haven't stopped since the accident, you barely eat, you hardly sleep – "

"You are forgetting that this is normal behavior for me John."

"You're deflecting."

"The last time I checked you were a medical doctor, not a therapist. In fact, don't you have a therapist? Is that where you are getting all of this nonsense?"

"Ok," John was getting frustrated, "You want me to shut up and leave this topic alone for good?"

"Please."

"Then you have to do one thing for me."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"You have to tell me how it feels. How it _truly_ feels, to have lost your eyesight."

If John had slapped his face Sherlock could not have looked more shocked. He recovered quickly, and his expression changed to one of deep concentration. His brow furrowed and, for a moment, John felt as if all time had come to a halt. "It is indescribable, John," he said quietly then.

"Just try," John pressured. "I know you're not used to this kind of thing in general, but it _is_ important, so please, for me, Sherlock, just... try."

"I don't know where to begin..."

"Start at the beginning... what did you feel in the hospital? What did you feel just now when you slammed your hands down on this countertop?" _What is going through that brilliant mind of yours? __**Please**__ let me in. _

"I don't have feelings," he said automatically, reverting back to his old self, infuriating, self for a moment.

"Bullshit."

Sherlock looked surprised by John's unusual retort, "John it is a part of my makeup..."

"No, it's not," John could feel his temper rising and fought hard against the desire to punch Sherlock. "It is most definitely _not_ a part of your makeup. It is something that you work at and prefect. It is your mask Sherlock, it is neither genetic, nor scientific. It's just some façade you put on in order to convince yourself that you are impartial and cannot be affected by non-scientific data. Basically it's a whole lot of bullshit. You want to know how I know that?"

Sherlock didn't respond, so John took it as a cue to continue.

"I know that because last year you nearly killed a man for laying a hand on Mrs. Hudson, then you confessed to me in a pub down in Devon that you had been frightened by the fact that your senses had been tricked into being unreliable, then you _jumped off a building_ and faked your own death to save my life. So don't bloody-well tell me you don't care, because I know you give a damn about a whole lot of people and things that you pretend mean nothing to you. And that's also how I _know_ that this is killing you."


	7. Feelings

Sherlock didn't understand. What did John want from him? Why this outburst? What was he thinking? The inability to read John's face infuriated him. John's face had always been an open book to Sherlock – so easy to understand, yet interesting enough to keep reading. But now Sherlock couldn't read him... he didn't know how because he could no longer see the signs. His voice was the only clue Sherlock had and he was well aware of how flimsy that data was. The voice was the most easily manipulated tell-tale. It could be used to mask emotions that the eyes betrayed. Sherlock was left guessing. He could only assume by John's tone of voice what the man was feeling, but Sherlock knew that John was a deep and complicated person and that – while he was quite frank and honest most of the time – he rarely expressed everything that he was thinking or feeling. _Feeling_... Did John honestly want him to explain? Was he really ready to hear Sherlock express the mental and emotional agony that he had been suffering through since the he awoke into this hellish nightmare? Could he tell John that he sometimes wishes that he hadn't woken up? _No._ He concluded as soon as the thought came to mind, her certainly could never tell John that.

Sherlock didn't want to think about his feelings. Thinking about them would force him to not only acknowledge their existence, but also, to experience them anew. Until this moment, he had managed to keep up the outward appearance of calm. For John's sake, and his own sanity, he had forced himself to act and react – to keep moving so that he wouldn't have time to think... or feel. Is that why John was angry? Did he want Sherlock to be more human? To _feel_ more? Why couldn't he understand that emotions only clouded up one's mind? That it was easier and far more logical to suppress them.

As always, the work had distracted him. It was mundane, but essential if life was ever going to carry on as it had before. That was what he wanted: his old life back. He didn't want to _feel,_ just to live normally, like before.

John had fallen silent after his rant and Sherlock had no idea what to do or say to make things better. He needed to assure John that he was going to be ok; that John didn't need to worry about him like this. Judging from past experience, he new that worry is what often made John mad at him. But Sherlock couldn't tell him the truth. He just couldn't tell John how he really felt at night when the house was quiet and he was fighting off the fatigue that threatened to drag him into fitful sleep and the feelings began to rise up and strangle him. He couldn't tell him about how ridiculous and angry he felt for having caused this accident in the first place. He couldn't tell John, not because he wouldn't understand – Sherlock knew that he would, he was sure that John had probably felt similar emotions during his time in Afghanistan – but because it would hurt too much to say it aloud. He didn't want to lose face... to dispose of this mask that John was desperately trying to destroy.

In truth, Sherlock was only vaguely aware of the true motivations behind his feelings. He had never been very good at figuring out the emotional side of things. It was the one thing that other 'normal' people often understood without really trying and the one thing that completely baffled the genius detective. He just knew that he couldn't tell John the truth, even though he also knew that John both needed and deserved the truth. He also knew that – for some reason which escaped Sherlock – John wanted to save him. He wanted to be the person upon whom Sherlock could entirely depend... the person that Sherlock could open up to. But could Sherlock be that person? _Could_ he open up? Is that truly what normal people – true friends – did? He was certain that it was, and yet, he felt that it would never be possible for him. How can one explain something they do not understand? How can you express emotions that you are trying so desperately not to feel? Emotions that you pretend do not exist.

"Ok. Fine," John said in defeat when the silence lingered between them. "Fine, Sherlock, keep living in your little fantasy. Just pretend that nothing's happened to you and that everything is fine."

Sherlock could hear the strong emotion in John's voice, but couldn't make it out... was it anger? Or was it something deeper? Hurt? Disappointment?

"Someday, Sherlock, you're going to find out that denial comes back to bite you in the ass," John spoke as if from experience. He then turned abruptly and stormed out of the kitchen.

Sherlock snapped out of his frozen state at the sound of those retreating footsteps.

"John. Wait – " Sherlock pleaded as he hopped down off of the kitchen stool to follow his friend and attempt to explain, but his bare feet landed down hard on the shards of glass that still littered the kitchen floor. They had been the result of his clumsiness which began this entire scenario.

"Sherlock!" John had turned when Sherlock called his name and was unable to prevent the accident he saw coming as a result of Sherlock's hasty actions.

He sounded so worried. Sherlock noted the tone, filing it away in his extensive memory. He could feel the tiny shards dig deep into his sensitive skin and the blood beginning to flow.

"I'm here," John said quietly, letting Sherlock know he was approaching. "Here," John laid his hands gently on Sherlock's shoulders, "Sit back down and let me have a look."

Sherlock obeyed and sat back on the stool. "I'm sure it's only superficial... probably nothing," he said, but received no response. He heard the glass shards scrape across the floor as John swept them aside and knelt down to look at the damage.

"It's not as bad as it could be," he said seriously. Sherlock felt the calloused hands gently but firmly touching his heel and ankle, lifting the foot on an angle so that John could have a good look.

"You mean I'm going to live doctor?" Sherlock joked lamely.

"It does seem likely," John jested in return, "It's not bleeding too badly. I'm going to go get some tweezers and a broom and get rid of this glass... then we can clean you up. He stood up then and added, as an afterthought: "Stay put and don't move. I'll only be a minute."

"Yes doctor," Sherlock mocked with a small grin playing at his lips.

...

John's mind was a mess. He felt guilty for yelling at Sherlock and for the accident that had just resulted, but he was also still angry that his best friend wasn't willing to let me in. Sherlock didn't want to talk about anything. How can they keep dancing around the fact... the _possibility_... that he may never go back to work? John hated that they couldn't just get everything out in the open. Why couldn't they work on a solution together? Why did Sherlock feel that he had to do everything on his own?

He grabbed the broom, as well as tweezers from his medical bag and a facecloth from the bathroom. When he returned Sherlock had his injured foot propped up on his right knee and was gingerly touching the injuries with his finger tips.

"I told you not to move," John said flatly. Why was he feeling exasperated? Had he expected anything less? Sherlock never listened to instructions.

"I wanted to see what the damage was," Sherlock replied innocently.

John sighed and busied himself with taking care of his flatmate who was still more of a child than a man in many ways. He would not let Sherlock off the hook, but he would put aside his irritation and distress until his flatmate wasn't bleeding.


	8. First Visitor

"I can't explain to you how I feel, John," Sherlock said completely out-of-the-blue hours after their heated conversation. The television program had switched to a commercial. John switched it off completely and turned to look at Sherlock who was busy organizing his desk; his intelligent hands feeling out piles of paper, notes, and journals, and stacking them neatly on the corner. He was all business. "Just know that... it is difficult. All of it. And that... I do, and will continue to, need your help."

"My help?" John said in mild surprise. "Sherlock, you haven't accepted my help at all. That's the problem. You seem to want to do everything entirely on your own."

"Something's are necessary for me to do by myself. You are not a nursemaid, John, and I am not an infant. I am capable of taking care of myself," he responded without feeling, "However, there are other aspects of my life in which you are invaluable to me and that is why I am asking for your aid now. Will you help me, John?"

"Of course, Sherlock, anything."

Sherlock couldn't suppress the smile that crept to his lips when he heard the relief still mixed with mild concern in John's voice. He was so desperate to be of use.

"If I am going to continue... solving crimes... you are going to have to be my eyes."

"What?"

"It's the only way John."

"But... Sherlock... I mean... how?" John stumbled aloud. John wasn't exactly sure what he had been expecting Sherlock to say, but this certainly was not the kind of help he had had in mind when he said 'anything'. How could he ever expect to be as observant as Sherlock? How could Sherlock even pretend to be serious about this? Maybe John had been wrong... maybe Sherlock had lost his mind after all.

"I will teach you what to look for," Sherlock answered, "and how to objectively describe what you see."

"How will you do that?"

"Every skill is simply acquired through practice."

"Sherlock, there is no way I could ever – "

"Yes, there is," Sherlock said, cutting him off, "I will help you to help me. Will you do it?"

John hesitated for a moment... could this work? Or would it just be leading Sherlock on? Could John become Sherlock's eyes? Could he ever see things the way that Sherlock did? Could he handle the responsibility of being so integral to Sherlock? Because, surely, if this scheme did work, and Sherlock was able to use John to help him solve cases, John would never be able to leave his friend.

"Say yes, John," Sherlock pleaded, "please. There is no one else I could ever trust to help me do this."

The request, the desperation that Sherlock was holding back softened John. He couldn't refuse Sherlock this. After all, it was a chance to be what John had wanted since their first meeting... to be of real importance to Sherlock's work and life. "Alright..." John said slowly, "I will try to learn, Sherlock, and to help you... but there has to be some qualifiers."

"Qualifiers?"

"Yes," John said as he got up from the sofa and walked over the Sherlock's desk, "for example, you have to promise to listen to my professional advice once in a while."

"Professional advice?"

"Yah, you know, eat at least once a day and sleep for a minimum of four hours a night; those kind of pesky things I've been mentioning since the first week we moved in together."

"So what you're saying is that if I take care of myself, you'll promise to help me?"

"Yes, _AND_ you have to try to be patient. Not just with me, because lord knows I'm going to be bad at this, but also with yourself. We have to run at a more reasonable pace. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Then we're agreed?"

"Yes, John. I will slow down and try to be patient and take care of myself."

"Then I will try to help you to the best of my ability."

Sherlock nodded and reached out his hand across the desk. John responded by taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. Sherlock didn't let go immediately. It seemed as if he needed the human contact in order to say the following with the correct amount of gravity and feeling, "Thank you, John."

"Anytime," John said honestly and Sherlock released his hand.

_Bling!_ John's phone went off then making both of them jump.

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked.

John slid open the phone and read the following message: _Going to be in the area today around 5pm. It is alright if I come up for a visit?_

"It's Lestrade."

"Lestrade? A case?" Sherlock said sounding hopeful.

"No, he just wants to pop by for a visit. Shall I tell him that it's ok?"

"Why on earth would he want to visit?"

"Because he's going to be in the area."

"He never pays us social visits."

John suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to tell Sherlock about Lestrade's visits to the hospital and how worried everyone had been about him. Molly's flowers and card had also gone without mention in all the busyness since they had returned.

"I forgot to tell you, Sherlock; Lestrade had visited you a couple of times when you were in hospital."

"Oh?"

"Yes, and Molly too. She gave you the potted flowers that were in your room."

"You mean the one dying on the windowsill?"

John glanced over at the pitiful specimen, "Yes, that one." John moved over to what was left of the plant and took the card out of its holder in the middle.

"She had written you this," John handed the card to Sherlock – gently pressing it to his hands so that he could investigate it.

Sherlock accepted it, carefully felt the dimensions, and opened it. He ran his fingers over the surface, feeling nothing.

"What does it say?"he asked flatly.

"Wishing you all the best and a speedy recovery. Your friend, Molly."

Sherlock handed it back to John.

"So what shall I say to Lestrade?"

"Tell him it's fine. Come on over."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Ok."

_Sure, come on over._ John sent the text.

The day that they had left the hospital John had asked Lestrade, Molly, and even Mrs. Hudson, to keep their distance from Sherlock until he was settled and coping with his new disability. Back then John had had no idea that Sherlock would begin adjusting so quickly. They had all agreed and kept to their promise that they would wait a while before trying to contact either him or Sherlock and John had almost forgotten about their existence.

As John sent the text he wondered if Sherlock really was ready. He was afraid that the visit would be more unhealthy than helpful for the dark-haired genius. The pressure to impress Lestrade, or the embarrassment that he knew Sherlock would feel about his situation, could set Sherlock back ... or force him to become even more vigilant in his fight to gain back his old life. John wanted him to take it slow.

_Bling!_

John looked at the response: _Great! See you at 5._

"What did he say?"

"He'll be here in an hour."

...

Forty-five minutes later Sherlock was pacing the living room.

John began to feel anxious for the detective. He sat quietly on the couch watching the tall man walk steadily back and forth with even, measured, steps. The rhythm on the floorboards echoed John's heartbeat.

"It's just a social call, Sherlock," John said lightly, "He just wants to pop by for a cuppa, share some news, and check up on you."

"Or maybe he has a case..." Sherlock said quietly.

John flashed back to the text he had sent when Sherlock had disappeared into the loo earlier.

_P.S. Absolutely no talk of cases. He's not ready_. -JW

"Do I look alright John?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Yes, you look good. Everything looks tidy."

"No, not my clothes. My face. You've never told me if the injuries healed properly. Do I have scars? Do I look different? I can't tell, so I know it can't be anything too gruesome, but I am curious."

"You don't look any different, Sherlock," John replied honestly, "The marks are almost unnoticeable. You may have a small scar on the left side of your jaw and another just above right eyebrow, those were the deepest cuts... but they are certainly not obvious."

"Good."

Sherlock continued pacing. John had been surprised by the question, but he wasn't sure why. If there was one thing Sherlock cared about it was appearances. He always made sure he looked and dressed his best. Now that he could no longer see himself, he was wondering what others would see when they looked at him... What would they deduce? John had assumed that his vanity was also the reason why he refused to use that white walking stick that Dr. Stevenson had given him. He didn't want his disability to be obvious to the world. John wondered what Sherlock would do once they started venturing out of the flat.

"John," Sherlock said, suddenly turning to him then, "I want you to know that I realize that I am asking a lot of you. I completely understand the level of commitment you have just agreed to, and I won't take it for granted."

John had to think for a moment to figure out what Sherlock was referring to. He had this funny habit of continuing on a conversation long after it had finished. John realised then that Sherlock had been thinking about the deal they had just made before Lestrade texted. Was that why he had been pacing? Was that conversation still on his mind?

"I appreciate that, Sherlock," John replied. Sherlock's thoughtfulness touched him and he was reminded what a strange and wonderful person Sherlock really was.

The bell rang.

"I'll go let him in," John said, getting up from the sofa.

"No," Sherlock said suddenly, "I'll do it." He walked over to the door as they heard Mrs. Hudson answer downstairs and Lestrade's footsteps begin the climb up to the flat.

Sherlock waited patiently, listening to the weight press down on each step and then, suddenly, swung the door open. John suppressed a smile as the shocked and slightly confused, middle-aged, Detective Inspector stood looking like a deer in the headlights with his fist in the air to knock on a door that was no longer there.

"Welcome," Sherlock said with a smile.

"Hi," Greg said, shaking himself out of shock. "How are you, Sherlock?"

"Excellent, thank you, yourself?"

"Uh... fine, thanks."

"Hello, Greg," John said and approached to shake his hand.

"Dr. Watson," Greg said with a nod and accepting the pre-offered hand.

"Come on in and have a seat," John offered.

"Yes," Sherlock added, "Take off your coat, stay a while."

Greg looked thoroughly confused. He did as he was told, removing his coat and handing it to Sherlock's outstretched hand before heading to a comfortable chair across from the sofa. Sherlock closed the door and hung the jacket before taking his customary seat across from Greg. John returned to his side of the sofa.

Greg looked from John to Sherlock and then back.

"So how's everything?" John asked.

"Good. How about here?"

"Fine," John replied.

"Boring," Sherlock said at nearly the same instant. "Have you been working on anything of interest? Any murders, serial arsonists... important high-profile thefts?"

Sherlock sounded desperate. Lestrade glanced uncertainly at John, and John shook his head in warning. Every morning since they had returned home from the hospital, Sherlock had asked John if there was anything interesting in the news; and, every morning, John had lied. He felt terrible about it, because Sherlock trusted him, but it was for Sherlock's own good.

"Naw, nothing really. Just petty theft and some gang violence," Lestrade said offhandedly.

John was impressed by Lestrade's even and casual tone. He was really good at lying.

Sherlock looked disappointed, but said nothing.

Lestrade stayed for about an hour chatting with John about what he had been up to and about sports and the weather and anything else that came up. When he was about to leave, Sherlock – who had spent the entire time sitting stone still and 'staring' out the window to his right – got up and followed him and John down stairs.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that you're recovering well," Greg said in parting.

"Yes, everything is going very well," Sherlock replied, "Whenever you get a new case, I am ready to be of service."

"Perfect," Lestrade replied kindly, "We'll be sure to call you if anything comes up. Good day, Sherlock, John," he said with a nod to each of them.

"Good day," John replied and closed the door behind him.

"John," Sherlock's voice seemed incredibly close to John. He turned around and was nearly face-to-face with the man – or face-to-chest as Sherlock was significantly taller. Sherlock had misjudged their proximity and John felt a bit stifled, he took a step back.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I want to go out."

"Out where?"

"To the park. For a walk."

John was relieved. For a moment he feared that Sherlock would want to go down to the station with Lestrade. "Ok," he agreed, thinking that a walk would do them good, "just let me get my coat. It's chilly today... you should grab yours too."

...

While reaching for his jacket John's phone began vibrating. He checked the screen: it was Lestrade. Glancing around to assure that Sherlock wasn't close by he answered. "Hullo?"

"Hi John, it's Lestrade."

"I know. What's up?"

"I need him, John."

"What? Why?"

"Because people are dying and we can't stop it."

"He's not ready," John replied stubbornly.

"He looked fine to me," Lestrade answered, "Even I can tell that he's bored."

John didn't reply.

"What I need to know is: can he do it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is he able to do his science... whatever he does... blind? Can he deduce things as he is right now?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Please find out as soon as you can... I know that you care about him, but I can't just stand by and watch all of these people suffer... it's a bad one, John. And we are completely lost as to what to do next."

"Ok... I'll think about it... let me just have a few days to see if he is able to... oh I've got go," he whispered quickly and hung up when he saw Sherlock begin to emerge from his room with his coat and scarf.

"John?"

Sherlock had taken to calling John's name whenever he entered a room. He always needed to know John's whereabouts. Sometime John would find himself replying, "Here, Sherlock," before Sherlock even had the chance to call.

"You ready to go?" John asked.

"Yes."

...

In a taxi several blocks away Lestrade had snapped his phone shut and cursed under his breath. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and breathed deeply. _John better know what he's doing_, he thought to himself. His mind flashed back to Sherlock's appearance and attitude in the flat. He had been so surprisingly _normal_ and aware. Had he expected less? It was Sherlock after all. But then, his attitude had changed slightly. In the entire conversation there had not been one quip about Lestrade's team members or any rude or outrageous comments about anything. Yet, in his actions – whipping open the front door to show off, disinterested pose while Lestrade spoke, even his response of 'boring' – all spoke to the fact that he was ready to go back – that he was the old Sherlock.

Part of Lestrade still feared that Sherlock wouldn't ever be able to help out with cases again, but another part of him hoped, prayed, and believed that Sherlock would make a grand appearance before the time ran out for any more poor souls. He sighed and stretched, feeling the weight of the case on his shoulders and the tension in his neck and jaw; even the idea of having the file still sitting in his briefcase seemed to cause the bag to weigh a ton. He needed Sherlock back to work. He needed all the help he could get.


	9. First Outing

John surveyed Baker street from his perch on the front step of 221B. Every object both animate and inanimate posed a potential threat. This was not a good time for a walk. Cars and people bustled up and down both sides of the street in their efforts to make it home on time for dinner. John's face was stern and his attitude serious – he was concentrating. He had never fully understood what Mycroft had meant in their first meeting when, while comparing the average person's view on London to Sherlock's, he'd said: "when your with Sherlock Holmes one sees the battle field". John understood that feeling now... though the context was quite different from what Mycroft had intended. He felt like his instincts were kicked into high-gear. He was back in a war-zone and it was his mission to get this stubborn man some exercise and then back to their home safely.

"John?"

Without turning his upper-body, John glanced over his shoulder at his flatmate. Sherlock was resting his right hand on the doorframe and his left lay on John's right shoulder, his head was tilted slightly and his body was tense. John knew that he was listening to the myriad of noises out on the street. Was he nervous? Or what this tension a result of suppressed excitement?

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Are we actually going to leave the doorstep sometime tonight?"

"Sorry," John took a deep breath, "ready when you are."

"Then let's go."

"Watch your step."

They moved slowly at first. Once on the sidewalk they had to avoid many obstacles. John didn't speak at all except to warn Sherlock of potential dangers, "Little boy on a skateboard soon to pass you on your right... woman with a small dog approaching to our left."

The people who noticed the two of them openly stared at Sherlock in curiosity. John wanted to hit someone. Sherlock was focusing intently on the number of footsteps that it took to safely reach the street corner. His dull eyes were fixed straight ahead, but his body was hyper-aware. To others he was seen as a helpless blind guy leaning on his aid whom he needed to get him safely wherever he was going. But in reality, he was an incredibly strong, intelligent and obstinately independent young man who – for the first time in his life – was allowing himself to trust in another human being. John knew that Sherlock could have made this journey on his own. If John was not a part of his life, Sherlock would have been out of the house and wandering around London on his own long before now. He was not helpless and he was certainly not needy, at least... not because of his disability. In fact, since the accident Sherlock had done more for himself than he ever had when he could see. The old Sherlock would call John away from a date so that he could send a text, or make him some tea. The new Sherlock almost never asked for anything; he always got up and went looking for things on his own and, as much as possible, would do things entirely by himself.

A part of him wondered if Sherlock was only allowing him to be his guide because he knew that John needed to feel needed. Of course, Sherlock wasn't superhuman. He was still a little disoriented and in need of support and guidance to make a trip fraught with hazards such as this without incident. John knew that, for Sherlock, trusting John's judgement and letting himself be led was the quickest and most logical way to achieve a goal, but it was also admission of weakness. Therefore, this was by no means the easiest solution where Sherlock is concerned.

When they made it across the street and under the shaded trees of the park, the noise transformed into a vague hum of activity which no longer held any danger. Both men relaxed considerably as they strolled silently down the gravel path.

John's mind began to wonder as his and Sherlock's steps fell into steady even pace and there was no real need for vigilance. He thought about Lestrade's phone-call and the murders. They had been in the news since the night after Sherlock had landed himself in the hospital. The postings on John's blog after the fifth body was found were becoming demanding and accusatory: _Where is Sherlock Holmes?_ _**Why haven't you updated? **__Why isn't Sherlock working on the hangman's case?_

The hangman was what they were calling him because all of the victims had been strangled to death and their bodies hung by the neck and put on public display.

"It sounds busy here," Sherlock said then.

John snapped back to full awareness and saw a group of picnic tables and a large fountain. Families and friends were milling about and chatting.

"Would you like to take the path to your right? We can avoid them if you want."

"On the contrary," Sherlock stated, "I'd like to take a seat and listen for a bit if we can."

"Ok, over here to our right there's a bench."

John led him to the bench and Sherlock ran his hands over the back and seat before sitting down. They sat in silence for a moment and John watched a family laugh and chat as they finished up their picnic.

Sherlock wondered what John had been thinking about, he was unusually quiet and very tense. "What do you see, John?" he asked.

"Hm?" John was unsure that he had even heard Sherlock right, he had spoken so quietly.

"Describe them to me," he said with a nod in the direction of the voices.

"Well, there's family sitting at a picnic table about ten paces to our right," John spoke quietly so that people around them would not hear. "Over by the fountain in front of us two children – twins I'd imagine... a boy and a girl about six years old – are splashing each other. A third child is chasing the pigeons off of the gravel walk. Their parents are sitting at the bench opposite, talking to each other."

"Very practical and succinct," Sherlock said when John had finished. John couldn't tell if it was a compliment or not. "Now try describing the family at the picnic table in more detail. I want to _see_ them, John, paint me a picture."

John describes hair colour, height, age, clothing, the items on the table, and still Sherlock asked him to go deeper.

"I don't know what else to say Sherlock, I've described everything I see," John said, fighting back frustration.

"No, you've described everything that you think is important," Sherlock corrected, "In order to truly describe everything that you see you must be more observant. You must force yourself to see the details that you would normally take for granted."

"Like what?"

"Jewlery, scars, wrinkles, actions and reactions... for example, are the parents laughing? Do they look happy and comfortable with each other? Is the woman wearing a wedding ring? If so, does it match the one that the man is wearing? Are her nails painted? Is she wearing make-up? Are her clothes brand new? What toys are the children playing with? These things can tell you if your assumptions – that they are a happily married couple eating dinner with their children – are true or not."

John continued to observe them while attempting to be discrete, he didn't want to look like a crazy person. He realized very quickly that Sherlock was right. The woman wasn't wearing a wedding ring, and neither was the man. The more he looked the more he saw, it was incredible. It seemed as if this couple were on one of their first dates. Sherlock prompted him by asking all kinds of questions about appearance and behaviour and made deductions based upon the information John gave him. Before he knew it a half hour had passed and the family was packing up to go.

"They're leaving," John said.

"Yes. Not bad for a first attempt,' Sherlock complimented, seemingly pleased with John's hard work.

"That was incredible," John said, amazed by all that he had just learned.

"I'm glad you found it useful," Sherlock replied honestly.

John looked at his flat-mate closely, could he deduce anything from Sherlock? Would he ever be able to read the thoughts hidden behind those emotionless grey eyes?

"You have now learned the first and most important rule of the trade," Sherlock continued, oblivious of John's attention, "One must never assume, John, simply observe,"

John couldn't help but realize that it had taken him half an hour to see what Sherlock normally saw in one swift glance. This training was going to be a very long and difficult process. Sherlock had been incredibly patient and supportive. It was unlike him. John appreciated the change; it was evident that Sherlock had taken his words to heart and was endeavoring to be patient and to make John's life easier in return for his help. Even so, John wondered if he would ever be ready to be of any real and reliable assistance at something as important as a crime scene. What if he missed something? Or several somethings?

...

They continued their adventure until it had grown dark. John was completely emotionally exhausted. He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief once they had reached the door of 221B and the stress, that John didn't know he was under during the walk back, began to eb.

They entered the hallway to find quite a surprise. There were boxes stacked on top of each other in the hallway.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked when John stopped dead just inside the door.

"Someone delivered a whole bunch of packages... they're addressed to you," he said after a quick glance at the address labels.

"Who are they from?"

"I have no idea... they don't say."

Sherlock approached hesitantly and ran his hands over the mysterious boxes and packets – there were about twenty items in all. "Well I suppose we had better get them upstairs and open them," he said matter-of-factly.

John discretely scooped up the one small package on top which was clearly labelled. He recognized it as the gift he had ordered online for Sherlock several days ago. "Yes, alright, how about you head on up and I'll grab some of this," he said absently as he read the label.

"I can take something too," Sherlock stated. He bent down and collected a medium-sized box and tucked it under his left arm. With his right he reached out and took hold of the banister and made is way up to the flat.

John watched him anxiously and then collected some packages and parcels of his own and headed up after him. _What on earth are in these things?_


	10. Nightmares and A New Kind of Normal

Once they had gotten all of the packages up to the apartment Sherlock went to the kitchen to grab a knife and begin opening them. John watched in amazement and horror as Sherlock kneeled down on the floor and carefully slit all of the tape open with the sharp blade. He was terrified that Sherlock was going slip and injure himself. The first package he opened contained a laptop. Sherlock flipped it open and felt the keys... "Braille," he muttered to himself.

He tossed the expensive piece of equipment aside roughly and opened a second package. It was much smaller and contained a watch. Sherlock carefully felt the buttons and the face of the device. He pressed a textured button on the side: '_Nine-fifteen pm'_ the pre-programmed device chirped at him in a woman's voice. He had started slightly at the sound. "Mycroft." Sherlock concluded and got up off the floor.

"Aren't you going to open the rest of them?" John asked, suddenly very curious.

"No. Just send them back."

"Sherlock, this is expensive equipment," John scolded in exasperation, "It is probably all very helpful stuff that would make your life MUCH easier."

"I have you to make my life easier."

"Funny," John said sarcastically, "I can't be around all the time. I have a job you know; one that I'm going back to on Monday. You should keep this stuff. It will help you stay occupied and oriented until I get home."

"No, John."

"You are a stubborn git, you know that?"

Sherlock remained resolute.

"Fine. Will you at least open this one?" John asked as he set the light package on top of Sherlock's hands which were resting in his lap.

"Why? What is it?"

"It's something I ordered for you."

Sherlock looked mildly surprised. He tore open the large envelop and carefully emptied the contents onto his desk: two books and an audio CD slipped out. Sherlock opened the books and touched the pages gently. "Braille," he said much like he had the first time.

"It's a course pack. The CD goes along with the book and will teach you how to read it."

"But John – "

"Before you just throw it out, listen to my way of thinking," John said without giving him a chance to continue. "I know how much you hate all of the audio books you've tried because of how long it takes for them to read everything to you... it's impractical. I figured that if you could learn how to read braille, you would then be able to read at your own speed and not get frustrated with the technology. There are some great resources online, we can order you all kinds of books..."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said suddenly. "It was very kind of you."

John's heart warmed in response to Sherlock's honest appreciation. "And if you keep that laptop which I'm sure Mycroft has already had preprogrammed with all kinds of great sites and resources for you, you'll be completely self-sufficient."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, "I suppose I could take a look at it."

John felt relief wash over him. Sherlock may hate Mycroft, but he hated dependency even more. "And maybe he's gotten you a more accurate audio web-reader program," John added aloud, more to himself than to Sherlock, "Then you won't have to fight with the cheep one you downloaded and I won't have to help you do computer research anymore."

He didn't need to say anymore. Sherlock was already curious to find out what exactly his brother had put on the device. He felt around for it on the floor, then snatched it up and opened it on the desk. He didn't speak to John again that evening.

Despite Sherlock's earlier insistence that the rest of the items be sent back to his brother, John squirreled away all of the packages into his room. He set them neatly aside and unopened in hope that Sherlock would in time come around – just as he had with the laptop.

...

When John finally lay down in bed that night he felt exhaustion in every fiber of his being. It had been a long day. A part of him wanted to hug Mycroft of sending all of the equipment that John had already been looking into purchasing. He knew exactly how much the laptop had cost and could only imagine how much money had been put into the programming and all of the other items that were still left unopened in their packages. The other half of him wanted to kill him. Mycroft had not stopped by to see Sherlock, had not phoned, had not even texted John to ask if Sherlock was alright, since the first night in the hospital. What kind of sibling could be that detached? John wondered if Sherlock actually preferred his brother's silence as he said, or if he only said things like that because he was hurt that his brother didn't care enough to visit. He didn't think about this long however. The exhaustion seized him, his groggy mind wandered, and he dropped quickly off to sleep.

At some time in the night John slipped from unconsciousness into a dream – a strange blend of memory and fear. He was standing in his medical tent in Afghanistan. He felt the oppressive heat and smelled the blood and sweat, he heard the screams and... gunfire? He felt his breath catch as fear began to creep into his heart and tighten like iron bands around his chest. He swallowed hard and went to the opening of the tent. Suddenly he was in the middle of a chaotic scene. Sherlock was there, in the middle of the battlefield with him. He was shouting orders at the men. They all went rushing forward right into a minefield. John cried out to him to look out, to stop, but Sherlock didn't hear him. None of the men could hear him over the sound of the guns. All around him explosions were going off and men, who John knew to be dead, were dying all over again before his very eyes. Sherlock turned to look at him with knowing eyes before a final explosion shook John awake. "Sherlock!" He shot up in bed, a cold sweat covering his entire body. He was trembling and his breath was coming in ragged, uneven, gasps. The dreamed blast had engulfed Sherlock and, for a moment, John fought off the wild urge to go check up on his roommate to make sure that he was alright.

He lay back in bed and closed his eyes, forcing himself to take slow deep breaths and to clear his mind. His leg pained him terribly and he got up to pace the room. He went through the motions of talking himself down: "It was just a dream," he muttered to himself. _You are safe. Everything is fine. Sherlock is fine. You will never go back there again. Sherlock is not in danger. It's just from the stress... you had a long day... it is just stress resulting from Sherlock's trauma. Just go back to bed. Go back to bed. _He was finally able to settle down and fall back to sleep sometime around three am – after having alternated between sitting awake and pacing for nearly an hour.

He awoke late in the morning feeling as though he were not fully rested. He felt uneasy; the nightmare had managed to unnerve him. He hadn't had one in over a year. Did this mean he was slipping back? That he still was not fully recovered from the PTSD? He got ready and wandered downstairs, still feeling the residual effects of the dream in a throbbing pain in his right leg.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock stated when John entered the living room. To John's surprise, there was a steaming cup of tea sitting invitingly on the table beside his chair. Sherlock was sitting at his desk, running his fingers over the pages of the book that John had bought him.

"Good morning," John replied and sat down in his chair.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, and you? You made tea... how long have you been up?"

"You had one of your nightmares again last night," Sherlock stated, ignoring the questions. He closed the book gently, folded his hand together, and gazed blindly and patiently at John.

"How did you know?" John asked, feeling both surprised and slightly ashamed.

"I heard you call out."

"You heard me all the way over in your room?"

"My hearing has greatly improved remember?"

John was silent for a moment. At least it meant Sherlock had gone to bed – he hadn't denied being in his room.

"You sounded quite distressed."

"I'm fine."

"Was it about the war? Or something else?" Sherlock pressured.

"What does it matter Sherlock? It was just a dream."

"It does matter, John. Your mental and emotional health are just as important as your physical health. In fact, in your case, the mental directly affects the physical... your leg is paining you isn't it?"

"How could you possibly...?"

"I heard you shuffle down the stairs. Your foot falls are uneven – you're placing more weight on your left leg."

"It's ok, really."

"If you don't think that I will understand, perhaps you should speak with your therapist about it." Sherlock's tone was open, practical and concerned; there was no hint of bitterness or sarcasm. He genuinely wanted to help.

"No, it's not that I don't think you'll understand," John tried to explain, "It's just that I don't think that I need to talk about it. It's over, I know why I had it, and I won't be having any more."

"Stress," Sherlock concluded, "Stress triggers them. Isn't that what you told me when you first moved in?"

"Please, Sherlock, leave it be."

"Fine," he said and opened up his book again.

After a moment of silence John interrupted, "How is that coming along?"

"It's quite simple actually. I completed the lessons last night."

"Did you go to bed?"

"Yes, shortly after one am."

"How do you know what time?" John asked, wondering if Sherlock had decided to use the new watch.

"I heard the church bell."

"So, do you think you would like to have some more books in braille?"

"Yes."

"Great, we can look into them and find out if any of your research books or encyclopaedias can be ordered."

John sounded so happy with himself. Sherlock was genuinely grateful for the gift he had given him. John was right after all: reading would go MUCH more quickly if Sherlock was able to scan through the books himself rather than have someone read them to him.

Sherlock listened as John took a quiet sip of his tea and picked up the morning paper. He seemed so calm, but Sherlock knew that he was shaken. He had to be. He had been terrified last night. Sherlock had awoken shortly after falling asleep to the sound of John shouting his name. He had only ever heard John call his name like that one other time: the day he stepped off the roof of St. Bart's Hospital. He had known immediately that it was a dream, but the level of fear and worry in John's desperate tone had startled and moved Sherlock; he had never wanted John to worry about him like that again. He had wanted to go to John's room and wake him, to reach out to him the way he knew John would to him if he had experience a similar issue. Unfortunately, he also somehow knew that John wouldn't really appreciate it – just as he didn't appreciate Sherlock's concern right now. This was one area of his life that John kept entirely to himself and he did not like acknowledging that he had an issue to himself, never mind to other people. Sherlock's questions only embarrassed him. So, knowing all of this, Sherlock had not gone to John's room last night, and he had graciously let the topic of conversation drop.

"John? Are you going out anywhere today?" he asked innocently.

"I hadn't planned on it... might do a bit of the shopping. Why?" John asked, looking over the top of the paper.

"I want to come with you."

...

A second week passed in this manner... John never left the apartment without Sherlock. The two of them would often go and sit in cafés, parks, malls and bars, and everywhere they went Sherlock would ask questions – demanding that John make observations and describe things, place, and people for hours. John found himself beginning to notice things about people before Sherlock asked the questions. Even though he felt he would never be able to read the signs and spin them into a story the way Sherlock could, he felt that he was getting pretty good at noticing them. A splash of mud here, a bit of lipstick on the collar there, some coffee on a tie here, a tattoo on the ankle there... things he had never really noticed before. It seemed that to break people down the way that Sherlock did you had to completely turn off the part of your brain that was human. You had to force yourself to see the things you didn't want to see, the things your mind chose to miss or forget because they don't fit into your own assumptions. You had to analyse them, every single detail of them, like the results of a new experiment.

Meanwhile, whether they were home, or out, Sherlock continued to taste, listen, feel and experience different things. It was a constant and seemingly never-ending stream of information he collected, catalogued, and filed away in his mind. Sherlock was hell-bent on 'observing' as much as possible by himself, so that when he was eventually invited to a crime scene he would only need to depend on John's eyes for a small portion of the data. He never said this to John, but John understood.

Occasionally, Sherlock would be seized by random ideas as to how he could widen his scope of knowledge and would then force John to take him out to – often embarrassing – locations. One example of such a location was a ladies' make-up store; Sherlock chose this particular establishment so that he could poke around and learn the different smells and feel the different textures of the different high and low-end products. "Make-up says a lot about a woman, John," he had said in defence when John tried to talk him out of the idea. Another time, they spent over an hour in a clothing store without buying a thing; instead, Sherlock slipped from garment to garment feeling every fiber of every possible type of cloth imaginable while people stared at them both as if they were completely mad. Once or twice they had even gone to the grocery store to give Sherlock a chance to poke around and try to identify all of the different smells and sounds there. In busy places such as these Sherlock never left John's side. He kept in constant contact – with one hand either clinging to his sleeve or resting on his shoulder. John didn't mind at all. He was happy that Sherlock was learning pace himself and also to embrace and overcome his new situation. John was more than willing to comply with Sherlock's wishes if it meant that he was being of genuine use to the great detective – no matter how humiliating the resulting scenarios were.

...

Because of his incredible memory and long history of communicating while actually paying attention to something else completely, Sherlock was able to type on a regular keyboard without error. However, the programs that Mycroft had had programmed into the new laptop were incredibly useful and thus, Sherlock had asked John to transfer the decent programs to his old laptop and return the other to Mycroft.

"Wouldn't it be easier to just transfer your files to the new one?" John asked as he eyes the complicated device.

"This one will be being watched and probably tracked. Mycroft is incredibly efficient."

"You honestly think your own brother would take advantage of your current situation to spy on you?"

"Yes."

John sighed and did as he was told.

...

John's blog and cell phone had both become a burden to John over the past seven days. He had returned to work, but only part time so that he could be home half of the day with Sherlock. Because of work, it was essential to check his phone, but Sherlock almost never texted anymore and his absence was filled by Lestrade's increasingly angry messages.

_If you don't bring him down here tonight I'm going to drive over there with a warrant and get him myself._ Lestrade's message had just come in as John reached the surgery.

_Ok, I'll talk to him. We'll be by tonight._


	11. Deception Revealed

John had caved. It was time.

Lestrade was right. Three more bodies had been discovered.

How he had managed to keep Sherlock away from the knowledge of the killings was a mystery even to John. Now that Sherlock had access to the internet it was quite possible he would stumble upon the story all on his own. It was best that John come clean and tell him himself... but how? How was he going to tell him? How would Sherlock react?

John knew he should expect the worst. Sherlock had been pining for, and working towards, a case since the accident. While a little over two weeks of recovery felt like no time at all to John, he knew Sherlock saw things quite differently. This was possibly the longest he'd been without a case.

He left work early. What was the point? He couldn't concentrate.

He wearily stepped out of the cab and walked up the front walk, the words he had rehearsed all day running around in his head again. His stomach tied itself in knots as he imagined Sherlock's response.

He pulled out his keys and glanced up to find a man standing at the front door, "Mycroft?"

"Good afternoon, John."

"What are you doing here?"

"Sherlock won't answer the door," he said, looking utterly bored with his brother's childish antics.

"What?" John shook his head, "No, not _out _here... I mean _here_ at all... what are you doing on Baker Street?"

"I should think it would be obvious... I've come to visit my little brother."

"Why now?"

"Oh do shut up, John, this is getting tedious. Just let me in."

"Not until you tell me what you are doing here," John said stubbornly, standing resolutely immobile. He needed to talk to Sherlock and he was not in the mood to deal with Mycroft right now. Mycroft always ruined Sherlock's mood and he was being a complete ass. Sherlock hadn't heard from him at all since the accident and all-of-a-sudden he shows up unannounced and doesn't even have the courtesy to tell John why?

"I hate repeating myself," Mycroft said with the slow tone of boredom. "I will tell both you and my little brother together once we enter the flat."

"No." John said firmly.

This inspired a raised eyebrow from the older Homes brother, "No?"

"That's right. I said no. If Sherlock won't let you in, then I sure as hell won't. And since you won't tell me what it's about I will assume that it is about nothing. Now get the hell off of our doorstep."

Mycroft looked genuinely surprised. "Fine," he said slowly stepping down off the doorstep and heading to the black car parked by the curb. "Tell him I stopped by, won't you?" He called before slipped inside the sleek black vehicle.

John remained silent and waited until the car had driven away before entering his flat.

"Good show," Sherlock said when John stepped into the living room.

"Oh? You heard that did you?"

"Of course... the window is open."

John hung up his coat and collapsed into his favorite chair.

"You're home early... had a rough day?" Sherlock asked absently as he typed away on his laptop.

"Sort of... Look, Sherlock," John said, leaning forward as he did so, "I need to talk to you about something..."

Just then Sherlock's mobile phone rang. He snatched it up quickly and answered it. "Hello?"

... John could only hear the muffle of a voice on the other end.

"Mycroft! I'm hanging up," Sherlock said in annoyance.

...

"What?" he asked in the same tone.

...

"No, this is the first I've heard of it."

...

John watched as mild curiosity turned to a very dark, unreadable, expression before Sherlock snapped the phone shut – effectively ending the conversation.

"What did he want?" John asked.

For the first time since he'd entered the flat, Sherlock turned his full attention to John. "Who is the _hangman_?" he asked slowly, his baritone voice deep and steady.

John's throat went suddenly dry. He swallowed and then licked his dry lips. "Well, that's actually what I was about to talk to you about..."

"I'm listening," he said when John didn't begin an immediate explanation.

"He's a serial killer," John stalled, trying to work out what to say next... this was not what he'd planned. One day, he was going to kill Mycroft.

"_And_?"

"He strangles people and then hangs their bodies up on public display."

"How many bodies?"

"The eighth was found today."

"EIGHT!"

"Yes," was all John could manage.

"Eight bodies and you're only telling me NOW? How long has this been going on?"

"For a while," John hedged.

"How long, John?" his voice was cold.

"It began shortly after you were released from hospital."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I thought – "

"How could you?" he snarled the accusation, "I've asked you daily to read me the papers and fill me on local news... you just happened to _overlook_ the front page?"

"Sherlock, please calm down... Just let me – " John struggled to get his words in order.

"You lied to me, John," Sherlock said in disbelief.

"I know, I'm sorry... I just... wanted to protect – "

"You blatantly lied," Sherlock cut him off, his voice rising with his anger, "More than that, you manipulated me. How could you? The only person in the world I actually..." he bit back the word, then thrust himself out of his chair and walked absently to the window.

What was it? What had he not said? John was left desperately wondering what that last word was meant to be... trust? Care for?

"I'm sorry," John replied honestly. The level of deception suddenly becoming clear to him and a pang of guilt hit him hard in the stomach. He wasn't sorry that he tried to protect Sherlock, but he was honestly sorry that he had had to deceive him to do it.

Sherlock began to pace. He walked from the window to the door and back about three times in silence before rounding on John: "If this case has been going on as long as you say it has, then why didn't Lestrade come to me sooner?" His voice was slightly calmer, though it was clear that he was struggling to control his raging emotions.

"Because I wouldn't let him," John confessed, "I told him not to contact you."

"Why would you do that?" he asked sounding both hurt and confused.

"I didn't think your were ready. You needed time to heal and get used to your new life – "

Sherlock laughed a cold, ironic, laugh, "I can't believe it."

"What?"

"_Lestrade_ had more faith in my abilities than you do!"

"That's not true," John said feeling anger rising in his chest.

"Oh? It sounds like it to me."

"Lestrade wasn't even thinking of you!" John snapped, "He just needed someone to solve a case for him. He didn't care how it was done or what state you were in."

"You had no right," Sherlock snapped back.

"Perhaps not, but I took a chance. As your best and _only_ friend I care a hell of a lot for you and I still believe that you would not have been ready."

"That was my decision to make."

"You're terrible at making those kinds of decisions for yourself! You are always blinded by the hunt. You never thought of your health even before the accident. What would make you think of it after?"

"Stop calling it that."

"What?"

"You heard me. I hate it when you call it that. It sounds as if I had no control over what happened."

"But you didn't."

"Yes, I did," he said resolutely.

"I don't understand," John said weakly.

"There are several factors that I had complete control over. I didn't call the police – "

"You never do," John pointed out failing to see where this was going.

"I didn't tell anyone where I was going or what I suspected – not even you," he continued on as if John had remained silent, "And I didn't see the bomb," Sherlock had his back to John as he said this, "I was distracted; I wasn't paying attention. I made a critical error. Nevertheless, it all could have been prevented. So stop pretending that I'm some sort of victim. I did this to myself."

"Sherlock, stop it," John ordered, "Stop talking like this – this is nonsense."

"No it's not," He replied flatly, "It's simple fact. You're always wanting me to be honest – to talk about things – well now I have been completely honest with you, John."

John just stared at him in disbelief. _How can he be saying these things? Does he honestly believe he deserved this? That he caused it?_

"I'm going to get my coat, and then I am going down to Scotland Yard," he said decisively.

John shook himself out of shock.

"Are you coming with me?" Sherlock asked over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

John felt suddenly very tired, "Do you want me to?"

"No," Sherlock replied honestly, "But I do need you to."

John was silent. He didn't know what to say or do.

"You promised to be my eyes, remember?"

"How can you even trust what I say, Sherlock?" He felt anxiety and insecurity in his own abilities creeping up inside of him. "What if I miss something?"

"You won't."


	12. The First Blind Case

It had been more of a threat than an assurance. Sherlock stormed out of the room and John, rushing to catch up, had found him on the curb hailing a taxi a moment later.

"Sherlock, I really am sorry," he began but Sherlock held up his hand for silence.

"You know that you can still trust me... right?" John pushed.

"Please, just shut up," Sherlock said in annoyance.

John complied.

...

"Sherlock! I can't tell you how happy I am to see you," Greg said with real emotion. Relief had washed over his face as soon as Sherlock walked in.

"I understand you are in need of my assistance," Sherlock said – all business.

"Yes, did John fill you in on everything?" He asked, glancing to John and then back to Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock said bluntly.

Lestrade looked back at John in question before rushing to fill Sherlock in: "Well, we found the eighth body this morning hanging from a flag pole just outside of Westminster. We took thorough pictures of the scene, just like all the others..."

Greg began walking towards his office and Sherlock attempted to follow but clipped his thigh on the corner of a desk and nearly fell. Instinctively he reached out and clung onto the object. Lestrade didn't seem to notice, but John had: "Here, put your hand on my shoulder, at least until we get to the office," he said gently taking Sherlock's hand in the attempt to guide it to his shoulder.

Sherlock yanked his hand away forcibly: "No. Just tell me where it is."

"...we can't find any fingerprints..." Lestrade's voice was trailing away.

"Ok," John swallowed the urge to tell Sherlock that he was a stupid, stubborn, git, and focused on the task at hand: "Take one step to your left, good, now walk ten paces... more to the right... good," John whispered the instructions so that – in the busy office – only Sherlock would hear.

Sherlock could detect the annoyance in John's voice, but he didn't care. He was not going to look like an invalid here. He needed to prove that he could still do his job – that he was independent.

"Sherlock, look out!" John said slightly louder, as he tried to reach for Sherlock and pull him back, but it was too late. A young woman with a disposable coffee cup had run right into the detective and knocked him into a desk on the other side of the aisle. He caught himself from falling to the floor by once-again clinging to the edge of a desk, but hot coffee had been poured all over his coat and scarf. John thanked the higher power that Sherlock had not yet taken his jacket off, or else he would have been scalded.

"I am so sorry!" The young woman exclaimed in horror.

Sherlock stood there for a moment leaning over the desk, trying to calm his heart and catch his breath. His legs throbbed from having run into, not one, but _two_, desks in the space of two minutes. The strong odor of coffee filled his nostrils and he shook his head to try and clear his senses.

"Are you alright?" a woman asked, then, out of nowhere, someone grabbed his arm.

He jumped with surprise and spun around, "Don't touch me!" he snarled through gritted teeth. "I'm fine."

"Oh, I'm so sorry again... are you sure you're not hurt?" the feminine voice asked with true concern.

"I'm fine."

"I didn't see you, I wasn't watching where I was going..."

"You should be more observant, not all of us have the luxury," Sherlock said cynically.

John watched as the realization of Sherlock's condition hit the young woman who had made the mistake not only of walking into him but also of grabbing his arm without warning. She turned an even darker shade of red in embarrassment and shame and tears brimmed in her lovely green eyes.

"Right, I'll get something to clean up that mess," she managed with a surprisingly even voice and moved away from him.

"Don't bother," Sherlock stated flatly. He continued to cling desperately to the desk. _Damn it... where am I?_

He squeezed his eyes shut, as he always had when trying to remember something obscure but important – it was a useless gesture. The action only emphasized to him how much his world had changed. Before he used to close his eyes to cut out distractions – to focus his thoughts – but now the distractions came in the form of sounds, not images. Those effortless deductions which had once jumped out at him with every glance were replaced by a confusing discord, a myriad of sounds: people chatting, typing, sipping coffee, clicking their pens, adjusting their chairs, talking on the phone. it was too much! It had quieted for a moment when that woman had knocked into him and when he had snapped at her for scaring him like that – how could she be so unobservant? Couldn't she tell that he was blind? He wasn't sure if the mistake had been a good or bad thing... had he been a believable actor? Or had she just been an unobservant dunce? He would never know. Nevertheless, despite his initial shock which had resulted from the tumble it was actually the momentary silence which had caused extreme unease. With sound – distracting as it was – he at least had some concept of space, some data which could guide him away from one sound and towards another, but silence... in silence he was completely lost.; unable to see or to hear the way.

He had resolutely refused to use his sense of feeling to guide him – he would never use that cane that John had placed in the front hall. John called it stubbornness, but in reality it was the result of an illogical fear... a phobia which seemed to be growing inside of Sherlock with each passing day... that he would lose himself to this disability. That if he gave in and accepted all of the devices that were out there to aid him, he would become dependent; that he would give up training and challenging his senses in favor of the easier way. Some insecure part of him felt that if he used the cane he wouldn't have to work half as hard, his senses would become lazy, and he would lose the part of himself that made him extraordinary. He couldn't risk it, no matter how silly and irrational it all seemed to everyone around him. Technology was different... he had always used it to help him, his new technology made him more independent, his ability to read Braille now also put him back on track with his old life... but when it came to finding his own way... he just couldn't accept that he needed anything or anyone. He hated even having to rely upon John, but this would only be temporary... soon he wouldn't need John even for this. He would be able to move freely anywhere without John's help... he just needed more training... more time... he wouldn't ever rely upon John to the point of utter dependence, as he might with the cane... right?

He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. _Picture it Sherlock, come on, you know this place..._ he felt panic rising. Knowing that a room contained four desks and six filing cabinets, as well as, a water-cooler, three potted plants, and at least six small garbage bins, was completely useless if he didn't know which direction he was facing. Out of desperation, he bit the bullet: "John?"

"I'm here," John said and Sherlock heard him approaching slowly.

"I'm disoriented," he confessed, trying to sound far less concerned than he actually was, "Which way is the office?"

"_Please_, Sherlock, enough of this... you don't need to prove anything," John said quietly, standing so close to Sherlock that he was almost whispering in his ear. John was keenly aware of the fact that the entire office floor was staring at them.

"Fine," Sherlock said resentfully. He reached out, lifting his hand to find John. His hand found John's upper chest and then quickly slid onto his shoulder. John relaxed and began leading Sherlock to Lestrade's office.

"Come on in," Lestrade said from the doorway of his office as if nothing had happened, "take a seat both of you." He was in an incredibly good mood and either hadn't noticed the tumble earlier, or had the good grace not to say anything.

Sherlock edged his way into the room and held out his right hand to feel for the back of a chair. John came to his aid by moving one closer to him – scraping the legs loudly on the floor as he did so.

"I want all of the facts," Sherlock said calmly once he was seated. He had removed his stained coat and scarf and had laid them over the back of the chair beside his. John took the one on his right.

"Well, as I was saying earlier, despite the fact that we know he strangled them with his bare hands, we can't actually find any fingerprints."

"Tell me about his victims."

"That's the other problem... a serial killer usually has a type, but this guy is all over the map. Women and men, married and single – though most of them are under the age of fifty, and five of the eight have been men."

"I need any and all information that you can provide. I do not usually come into a case so late in the game and, since I was not able to be at the crime scenes, every single detail is essential."

"Of course," Lestrade complied.

John noticed the absolute glee in his eyes as he watched Sherlock's mind work. John also noticed how he kept glancing at the detective's eyes, but would not look for long, as if he was afraid that Sherlock could actually see him.

"I want all of your notes, the order in which the bodies were found, all of the mortician's reports, ALL of the crime scene photos, and the individuals' clothes and personal effects at time of death."

"Ok, can you at least look at all of that stuff here in the office? Strictly speaking, we're not allowed to let evidence leave the Yard... too much of a chance it could be tampered with and we both know that means there's a chance that the case evidence – assuming we find this psycho – would be inadmissible in court."

"If you provide me with an office and absolute silence, I will agree to look at it here," Sherlock said after a brief hesitation. He hated being confined in such an alien place, but he would need to make concessions if he was going to prove to Lestrade that he could still be an effective detective.

Thirty-five minutes later, he was sifting through eight boxes worth of material that had been stacked up on a cold metal table in front of him.

"I can't believe that an interrogation room was the only quiet office space they had available," John said with a shiver.

"Stop complaining and help me," Sherlock ordered. He sounded just like his old self.

"What do you need?"

"Which one of these was the first victim?"

"They're in order from left to right. So... this one here," John drummed his fingers on the cardboard lid and Sherlock reached towards the sound resting his hand gently on the box and then impatiently flipping the lid off of it and setting it down on the table beside.

...

"I can't believe you're actually letting him do this," agent Donavan said as she watched the two of them crack open the case files on the other side of the one-way glass.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked innocently.

"Look at him!" she said motioning with her hand to add extra emphasis.

"I am!"

"He's _blind_, Greg. If he ever was of any use – which is doubtful – he certainly isn't now. You must be completely desperate... or nuts."

"How dare you speak to me like that?" Greg said, suddenly losing his temper. His voice was even but his tone was threatening; Donavan was treading on dangerous ground. "He's solved more cases than the lot of you put together!" he continued, "And I'll wager that he's got this one solved before your preliminary DNA results come back from the lab. He is a bloody genius, _and_ a great man. I don't ever want to hear you talk about him like that again, do I make myself clear?"

Agent Donavan looked as if he had struck her, "Yes sir," she said meekly and – after casting one last venomous glance at the tall, dark-haired man on the other side of the glass – she left the room.


	13. Exhaustion

{Hello Everyone! I just wanted to take a moment to thank you all so much for sticking with me and continuing to read and comment on my story. I can't adequately express how much I appreciate it and I take everything you say into consideration. I also wanted to let you know that I have plenty of great stuff planned for John and Sherlock's relationship, but I just haven't been able to fit it in naturally with the flow of the story. So I have been waiting for just the right moment to slip it in. I hope that these case chapters are not getting too tedious. I feel that they are important because they demonstrate just how difficult things are going to be for Sherlock from now on, and how important and understanding and wonderful John is (as if you don't already know). Enjoy!}

...

"Sherlock, it's been four hours," John complained as Sherlock reached for the third box.

"And?"

"My throat hurts from talking, my back is stiff from these miserable chairs, and my vision is blurry. Can I please, at least, go get a glass of water before we continue?"

"Certainly if you think it will help your performance," Sherlock said absently as he slipped his hands deep into the box and began lifting out handfuls of photos and evidence.

John took a deep breath of relief, stood up, stretched, and then headed for the door.

"But hurry back," Sherlock added suddenly, "we still have much to do."

"Maybe we should take a break... You know, come back in the morning?" John suggested in a last desperate effort.

Sherlock turned to John and, while seemingly staring straight at him, replied: "Take a break? John, we've only just completed examining the evidence contained in _two_ of these _eight_ boxes."

"Yes, no need to remind me," John grumbled under his breath.

"At this rate there will be another body before we even have all of the facts! And you want to go home for a nap? Whatever happened to your never-ending altruism?" He reprimanded, "Now stop complaining and hurry up!"

John sighed and rubbed his poor, tired, eyes and then the back of his aching neck, as he meandered to the water-cooler. He was purposefully taking his time, knowing full-well that Sherlock was not going to let him out again for several more hours once he returned to their little dungeon. _He's punishing me_, a part of him thought bitterly, _he's punishing me because he thinks it's my fault that he's late to the case. And, hell, why not? The fact that he could barely walk up a flight of stairs two weeks ago had nothing at all to do with his deductive skills. Sure, he could have leapt right in after nearly being blown to pieces and permanently blinded... no problem for the great Sherlock Holmes._ Without understanding why, John suddenly lashed out and kicked the base of the water-cooler. It tottered but, thankfully, didn't fall. In surprise of his own violent reaction to the tired, bitter and sarcastic thoughts tumbling through his head, he glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed. The office staff sitting at the three closest desks were looking up at him questioningly. "Sorry," he mumbled and then grabbed a cup of water.

The more rational part of John began to kick in after the third, tiny, paper-cup full of water and he realized that this probably wasn't punishment, that this was just life from now on. Sure, Sherlock's cranky mood was probably a direct result of having been lied to by his best friend, but his slave-driver attitude was more likely the result of his genuine efforts to get caught up. Hell, he was being more like Sherlock than ever! If Sherlock still had his sight, he probably would have taken all of that evidence back to their flat – legal technicalities be damned – and worked on it all night long after John went to bed. This was actually _normal_ behaviour for Sherlock, John just wasn't used to the pitiless and unforgiving schedule.

"Well, I guess I'm going to have to get used to it," he said quietly aloud without realizing it.

If he were going to keep his promise to Sherlock and become his eyes on the case, then he was going to have to adapt. But what did that mean? What about his other job? His career? If Sherlock grew to depend upon him he could never have another life. He couldn't date or get married... he could never leave Sherlock! "Maybe this is all a very bad idea," he muttered leaning his forehead against the cooler.

"How's he doing?" Lestrade asked, appearing suddenly – seemingly out of nowhere – behind John.

John straightened up and quickly crinkled up the paper cup and threw it away, "Fine, he's fine... the case is going slowly though."

"Yah, I thought it might, being the first one back and all. Not to mention he's got a lot of evidence to shift through..."

"Please don't remind me," John pleaded under his breath, Lestrade didn't notice.

"You know, I probably should have asked this earlier," Lestrade continued, "But, does he need anything? Any special equipment?"

"No. He had me go back to the flat and pick up his laptop after our meeting with you. He's been taking notes on that."

"Notes? He never takes notes," Lestrade said in surprise.

"Well, maybe he's afraid he'll miss something, or forget..."

"He never forgets... _anything_... _ever_... that's what so many people hate about him," Lestrade said truthfully, "The only time he doesn't remember is when he purposefully chooses to forget."

This hadn't really occurred to John. Hearing Lestrade say it though, suddenly made John suspicious... Why _did_ he need the laptop?

"Well, I guess I better get back to him, he needs my help."

"That is certainly true," Lestrade said quietly, "I'm just glad he's letting anyone help him. Though I guess he doesn't really have a choice..."

"Not if he wants to continue doing what he's doing."

"You're awfully good to him, John," Lestrade said suddenly, "I hope he appreciates it; though I somehow doubt that he'll ever tell you that he does."

"Yah, well, right now I'm the enemy. I did lie to him for two weeks after all."

"He'll get over it," Lestrade said pitilessly.

"I know. He's going to be hard to live with until he does though."

Greg just smiled, "Let me know if you need anything else... anything at all."

"Thanks... Wait, shouldn't you be going home? Didn't your shift end over two hours ago?"

The Detective Inspector shrugged nonchalantly, "I want to be here, you know, in case he finds anything."

_He's really concerned about this case..._ John noticed then, much like Sherlock would have, the darker spots beneath Greg's tired eyes and the nervous way he drummed his fingers on the top of the water-cooler, and then the nearest desk, and then his right leg. "Yah, ok I'll let you know as soon as he even thinks he might have an idea," John said.

"Thanks."

...

"Damn it, John! Wake up!" Sherlock shouted, slamming his hands down hard on the metallic table right beside John's head.

"I'm up!" John shouted in response, but it was mostly out of surprise. He remembered leaning his head down on his arm while reading over yet another' package of police notes, but then he'd somehow drifted off.

"You were sleeping!" Sherlock accused.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but I'm tired! I haven't stopped since seven am yesterday morning and now it's almost five am."

"That's no excuse, I'm awake."

"Yah, well, you're used to it," John replied lamely.

"Just go home," Sherlock said pettily.

"Oh? And what will you do here without me?" John snapped at him.

"I'll... I'll just..." Sherlock stuttered as he struggled to find out what he could do and John's heart sank.

"I honestly am trying to help," he said apologetically.

"I can't do this without you," Sherlock said it more to himself than to John; it sounded as if he were in shock at the realization.

John remained silent.

"If I can't do this without you, then I shouldn't be doing it at all."

"Sherlock that's nonsense. All I'm doing is reading stuff out to you... I'm sure you could get a computer or another person to do it just as well as I can," John couldn't believe he was trying to argue just how useless and replaceable he was to Sherlock.

Sherlock was silent. "No, you don't understand..."

"No, I bloody-well don't understand," John said as the frustration turned once again to anger, "all of the training you were giving me... you know, to help you '_see_' the crime scenes... I thought it was all because you understood that you would need to have a partner now; someone you could trust to help you make your deductions."

"Yes, but John, I never realized exactly what that would mean... I can't even do simple case research on my own. I thought I would just need you for the crime scenes... the stuff you usually do. I've always accepted and welcomed your help before but never really _needed_ it... at least, not in the sense that I do now... I didn't think... I didn't realize..."

"Enough," John could see that this was heading nowhere good, "We're both exhausted. I'm taking you home. We're going to sleep for a minimum of four hours, and then we will look at this with fresh eyes and hopefully gain some insight."

"You're right," Sherlock said rubbing his own eyes with his thumb and forefinger – an unconscious motion that he hadn't yet dropped. At that moment, and probably because of John, he felt as though his eyes were strained and tired also.

His declaration nearly knocked John over in shock, "I am?"

"Yes, you are," Sherlock seemed to have snapped out of his momentary, self-pitying stupor, "What I said before is true – I cannot do this without you – but _you_ cannot do this without sleep. So we will compromise. You have spent the past twelve hours helping me, you deserve some rest. We will go home and look at the last two boxes in the morning... and then we will visit the crime scenes."

"Ok," John said still in shock but willing to take what he could get.

Sherlock stood up fluidly and, after a quick stretch, tucked his chair back under the table. John walked around to Sherlock's side of the table and just caught a glimpse of his notes before Sherlock shut the lid of the laptop and slid it into its case.

_So he really was taking notes... why?_


	14. The Crime Scene

John didn't remember returning home. He didn't remember climbing the stairs, or entering the flat, and he certainly didn't remember getting into bed. He _did_ remember awaking groggily to the sound of his alarm clock which was set to go off automatically every weekday at seven am. He remembered rolling over and switching off the alarm and then waking up again three hours later with the bright, late-morning sun beaming through his window. He sat up and rolled his head from side to side... surprisingly, it didn't hurt, and his back wasn't stiff. In fact he felt completely relaxed. He looked at the clock... it was just after ten am. He was still wearing his clothes from the day before. He suddenly felt dirty and wandered groggily to the bathroom to take a shower. Half an hour later he was dressed and feeling both refreshed and re-energized. Then it hit him... where was Sherlock? How had they gotten home last night? Taxi? Mycroft?

John entered the living room to find Sherlock in front of the telly listening to the morning news cast. "Morning," he said, casually announcing his presence.

"Morning. Sleep well?"

"Like a baby... in fact... I think I slept so well that I forgot what happened last night. How did we get home?"

"We took a taxi of course," Sherlock said while muting the program with the remote control. On more than one occasion John had arrived home to find the telly on and Sherlock in a completely different room. John wasn't sure if he kept confusing the mute and the power button or if he just didn't care enough to differentiate between the two.

"Oh? Who paid?" John asked out of genuine curiosity.

"I did. You were too tired to find your wallet."

"Oh... sorry. I guess when I'm tired I'm just as bad as when I'm drunk," John said sheepishly.

"It's not a problem," Sherlock unmuted the program and listened in silence for a moment.

John casually approached Sherlock's wallet which Sherlock always kept on the corner of his desk when it wasn't in the pocket of his trousers or jacket. He opened it up and counted the remaining bills. John had taught Sherlock to fill his wallet in a certain order – just like with his closet – so that the bills would be easier to find, but it apparently hadn't worked. It appeared that Sherlock had given the driver fifty pounds for a ten minute taxi ride. John knew this because he was the one who had given Sherlock the missing fifty pound note – just in case. He suppressed a groan at Sherlock's carelessness, and then forced himself to take a deep breath – if he ever got his hands on the dishonest cabby driver who'd been slimy enough to steal from a blind man, he'd kill him.

"Have you had breakfast?" John asked, knowing full-well what the answer would be.

"No, not hungry... on a case," Sherlock replied automatically.

John realized then that Sherlock hadn't been listening to the telly – he had just been using it to drown out other noise. In reality, he was actually thinking about the case; the case that they needed to get back to.

"Did you sleep?"

"I dozed."

"So, that would be a 'no' then," John said under his breath as he stared into the empty refrigerator.

Sherlock listened as John moved around the kitchen. The sound of his slippers on the floor and the refrigerator door opening then closing, slices of bread being pulled out of a plastic bag, the button being pressed down on the toaster, mugs taken from the cupboard, tea bags being taken out of the canister on the counter, the kettle being put on to boil... These were comfortable noises; safe and predictable. Though he felt the pressure of the new case weighing heavy on his mind, he forced himself to sit quietly and not to pester or hurry John. He knew John, and John needed to be awake, clean, and well-fed, in order to function properly. The first two were taken care of: he had heard John get up at about ten am and heard the water running shortly after. All he had to do now was wait until John was refuelled and ready to get back to work.

Sherlock noted that John seemed more relaxed this morning, but also confused. He was acting a bit out of the ordinary. He wondered what John had wanted with his wallet. He had heard him fingering the bills but didn't hear him remove anything. It was odd. But maybe John was just checking to see if Sherlock had told the truth: that he actually _had_ paid for the taxi. Was it really so unbelievable?

He forced back a smile when he remembered John last night. He really had acted as if he were intoxicated. He'd fallen asleep in the cab and when Sherlock called his name he'd mumbled something about breakfast. Thoroughly amused, Sherlock had quickly paid the cabby and told him to keep the change, then dragged John out of the car and up to the door of 221B. Crossing the sidewalk from the cab to the front door had felt rather perilous, but the street had been so quiet at that time in the morning that he needn't have worried about bumping into anyone. Somehow, pushing the sleep-walking John up the stairs into the apartment and ordering him to bed had made Sherlock feel important and truly in control. For the first time since the explosion – perhaps since forever – he'd had a chance to take care of John and to be completely in charge. John had almost laid down on the couch when they first entered the flat, but Sherlock had dragged him into his room and waited to hear that he had collapsed on the bed before he turned off the light and left. He wanted to make sure that John awoke in the best mood possible and the sofa certainly would not have ensure that. Now John didn't remember any of it – it was really quiet amusing.

"What are you smiling about?" John asked as he plopped down across from Sherlock with his breakfast.

"Smiling?"

"Yes, just now, you were smiling. Why?"

"No reason."

"I'll be ready to go in just a moment," John said as he gobbled down his piece of toast and Jam.

"Oh take your time," Sherlock said in an understanding, inconsequential, tone, "It's not as if there are human lives depending upon our findings."

"Ok, ok, I get it," John said standing up and taking a final gulp of tea, "I'll take it to go."

...

Just over four hours later, Sherlock and John exited the interview room. They had gone through the last two boxes and final scraps of evidence and had just finished interviewing the officers who had been first on scene.

"Well, what do you think?" Sherlock asked once the final person to be interviewed – Officer James' – steps disappeared down the hallway.

"What do you mean?"

"About the officers... How did they act during the interview?"

"Fine, normal, I guess... why?"

"The last one sounded agitated. Describe him to me."

"Why? He's a police officer, what would his agitation have to go with anything?"

"That's just it, John. You _need_ to be objective. It is extremely important that you observe rather than assume. Police officer or not, he is human and not immune to temptation or error. Now, we know by the way he fiddled with that pen and drummed his fingers that he was uncomfortable at being interviewed... the question is, _why_?"

John was mildly surprised by Sherlock's matter-of-fact, rather than 'don't-be-an-idiot', tone of voice. If Sherlock was irritated at John's lack of observation, he wasn't showing it.

"Maybe he's not used to being interviewed?" John guessed half-heartedly.

"Or, he's afraid he may have made a mistake... cut a corner somehow. When you asked him if he'd touched the body before the medics arrived, he hesitated before saying 'no', as if he weren't sure how to respond."

"Meaning?"

"He's been coached."

"Coached? What for?" John was completely confused, "How would anyone know that we were going to interview the officers? Lestrade didn't even suspect it until this morning."

"Nevertheless, he didn't know what to say. He had never considered that aspect of the story he's been trying to remember. He didn't have a pre-rehearsed answer; he needed to think of one that would fit into his neat little story."

"Sherlock, this sounds ridiculous."

John didn't like where this was heading. Was Sherlock onto something? Or just being paranoid? Accusing an officer of the law of a wrong-doing was a very serious accusation.

"What exactly are you accusing him of?" he asked when Sherlock didn't dignify his previous outburst with a reply.

"He wasn't the first on the scene, John," Sherlock said with absolute certainty. "Now we need to find out who was."

"Why would he say that he was if he wasn't?"

"Good, now you're starting to ask the right questions."

John rolled his eyes, "Should we talk to Lestrade?"

"No, we need to talk to Officer Kyle James. But we have to do it somewhere where his superiors won't be around to interfere."

"Why? We're not going to torture him, surely?" John had attempted to state rather than ask, but a hint of uncertainty had managed to creep into his voice.

"If he's been coached, there is a possibility that one of his superiors told him what to say. We need to talk to him away from Scotland Yard."

"And how will we manage that?"

"We'll think of something... for right now, we need to get to the last crime scene."

"But it's all been cleaned up, there's nothing there to see."

"Once again, you are incorrect," Sherlock replied, "We need to figure out how the killer got the bodies where he hung them without being seen... all of them were hung far above the ground in public and busy locations. That is an important part of the mystery."

...

"Is this it? Are we here?" Sherlock asked when John stopped for a moment to compare the crime photo to the scene before him. They had just crossed the road and were facing Westminster Abby.

"Yes."

Sherlock stepped forward and touched the base of the lamppost before him. "I thought he hung the body from a flag pole?"

"That is what Greg said, but he must have gotten confused with the seventh victim. There are no flag poles around here, just this lamppost, and it _is_ what is shown in the photo."

"Very well," Sherlock said. "How tall do you think it is?"

"I don't know, maybe, ten, twelve feet?"

"Alright, John," Sherlock began after a moment of silence, "How would you do it?"

"What?"

"If you had to, how would you get me up there?"

"You?"

"Yes, you said yourself that the last victim was about my height."

"Yes... and so?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and began to sway unsteadily before he suddenly collapsed against John. "Sherlock!" John gasped in surprise as he managed to catch the tall man from hitting the cement. "Are you alright?"

"Heavier than I look aren't I?" Sherlock said flatly, his eyes remained closed.

"You're a – " John began half in anger and half in relief.

"Tut tut," Sherlock interrupted, "We're in a public place, John. Think of the children, and watch your language."

John grunted as he hoisted Sherlock's limp form up to his shoulder in an attempt at a fireman-carry. "I hate you sometimes," he grumbled.

"Remember, the victim weighed considerably more than I do. Don't forget to factor that into your calculations."

John felt the rumble of Sherlock's words vibrate against his shoulder and back; Sherlock's deep voice so close behind him sent a funny chill down his spine. He shifted the weight a little as his shoulder began to ache and his arm was quickly going numb. Sherlock certainly was heavier than John had imagined him to be, though not unmanageable. In the plaza all around them, and even across the street, people were staring at him.

"We're drawing an awful lot of attention, Sherlock," John whispered.

"Exactly," Sherlock replied.

"Can I please just put you down?" John could feel his face going red. Someone was surely going to call the cops, or an ambulance, or something!

"No. Not until you've figured it out."

John groaned in annoyance and did a little hop to re-adjust Sherlock. He considered dropping him out of spite, but decided against it.

"Ok. The top of lamppost does seem incredibly high up..." John began looking up to the top and remembering the crime-scene photos. "So, I'm guessing he must have used a ladder of some kind and then perhaps was able to attach the rope somehow and hoist the body up."

"Would you be able to hoist me up?" Sherlock asked.

"Um... I don't know. I think so. I'm still able to carry you, and it's been a little over – " John check his watch, "three minutes... With the help of the rope you'd be lighter... so, yes, I suppose it is feasible."

"You don't sound very certain about any of this. Does your plan seem practical or not? Would it have been possible to attach a rope and create a pulley system on a lamppost?"

"I don't know; I'd have to try it."

"Have your back or arms started to ache yet?"

"Yes," John said through gritted teeth. This was ridiculous! He used to be able to carry a man and all of his supplies while running over a battle field! However, it is always easier to do great things when you're pumped full of adrenaline – which John currently was not. Still, his own lack of stamina surprised him. He needed to get back into shape. London was not good for him. "But I could still manage for a while yet," he added aloud more for the sake of his pride.

"Could you manage if I were fifty pounds heavier? If you needed to, could you drag me up a ladder? What about getting me here? Would you have carried me across the busy street?"

"Ok, ok I get it... I have no clue how he did it... let me put you down and we'll figure it out."

Sherlock suddenly snapped back to a living, conscious, being, and – after pushing against John's back to right himself and restore proper blood-flow (his head was beginning to get dizzy from the low angle) – he hopped down.

John straightened up and stretched his neck from side to side.

"You need to get back into shape," Sherlock quipped.

"Shut up, I'd like to see you do any better."


	15. Kidnapped

Less than twenty-four hours later...

...

Sherlock stood completely still, as if time itself had stopped. His hand rested on Lestrade's desk – it was an unconscious gesture; a support he used to steady and orient his body and ground his thoughts. _This is reality_, he told himself. He was certain of it, but yet he could not accept what he had just heard...

...

John had been missing for twelve hours. He had told Sherlock that he was going out for a drink with Mike Stamford, but when he didn't return home after one am and hadn't contact Sherlock at all by that time, Sherlock became concerned. After struggling for what seemed like an excruciating amount of time to find a way to find the number which only John knew, he had managed to call Stamford – waking him out of a sound sleep. John had lied to him: he and Stamford hadn't talked in over a month. In desperation, Sherlock went to Lestrade.

The trip over had been disorientating and uncomfortable. John usually told Sherlock how close they were by reading out the occasional street sign. He didn't have that when he was alone with the cabby. He could have been being taken anywhere! He tried hard to focus on his mental map of London during the drive over, and to ignore the rising feelings of fear and panic for his best friend's safety, but it didn't really work. Why had John lied? What was he really up to? Had he ever lied like this before? Had he been drinking alone? What if he had been mugged? _Shut up, shut up!_ he'd thought to himself in an attempt to calm his nerves. _There's no point making silly assumptions. Get data._He'd missed John's presence for every second it took to get from that damned taxi to Lestrade's office.

"You're certain he's in trouble?" Lestrade had asked as if it were possible that this behaviour were normal for John. He might as well have said: _"I'd run away for a few hours to escape you too." _

"Yes, I'm certain," Sherlock said completely unfazed by the scepticism in Lestrade's voice. "John is never out of contact for this long. He's been especially careful to keep in touch since my last case," he said in reference to the explosion that had blinded him.

"Yes, I suppose this is a bit odd," Lestrade conceded, he stood leaning back against his large desk and facing Sherlock who was seated in a chair opposite, "But listen, Sherlock, I have to wait until at least twenty-four hours have passed before I can even file a missing person report."

Sherlock groaned, stood up sharply, and began pacing the office. Then suddenly Sgt. Donovan poked her head in the door: "Sir, someone's on the phone for you."

"Well I'm busy," He replied flatly, "Who is it?"

"I don't know, he won't say, but he insists it's important."

"Ok, patch him through," he said before turning to Sherlock, "It's probably Mycroft."

"Calls you often does he?"

"No, he's just always has to be so damned mysterious when he does."

The office phone rang and Lestrade picked up before the second sound, "Lestrade," he said flatly.

"What?" his voice had suddenly changed but Sherlock didn't know why.

"Let me speak to him..." Lestrade ordered, "No, you'll get _nothing_until I speak to him."

Sherlock felt his blood run cold. Speak to who? "Who is it?" he asked aloud; Lestrade ignored him. Was it about John? He moved closer to the desk, gripping the edge for support.

"John," Lestrade's voice was softened by a brief sigh of relief, but this was quickly transformed into a tense tone laden with concern: "Are you alright? ...Where? ...How bad? ... Ok ... Are you sure? Listen, John, we're going to get you out of there."

Sherlock strained to hear John's voice. He was alive, but was he ok?

"Wait, what do you mean?" Lestrade asked in confusion, "...John? Hello? John? Are you still there?" Urgency rose in his voice and Sherlock unknowingly held his breath, then, suddenly: "Who is this?" Lestrade's voice had changed completely – confusion and distrust tainted the tone as the phone changed hands on at the other end of the line. Sherlock could make out a deep voice, but not what the new voice was saying.

"When and where?" Lestrade asked sharply. Sherlock heard Lestrade digging for something in the desk drawer and then pencil on paper, "What do you want in return?"

There was a one-word response and then the line went dead. Lestrade hung up the phone and stood in silence for a moment.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted, while desperately trying to keep his voice steady and his breathing even. He could almost hear his own rapid, panicked, heartbeat and his hands had begun to shake. He slipped his free hand into his pocket to hide it from Lestrade.

"They've got John. He says he's ok, but he's been shot."

_This is reality,_ he told himself. Shaking away the strong desire to wake up; the wish that it was all just a horrible dream.

"Where and how badly?" Sherlock demanded. He needed data.

"His left shoulder... and I don't know."

They'd shot his wounded arm... his battle scar. Sherlock felt hot anger and immense hatred burning in his chest, but the only evidence of it was in the white-knuckled fist now resting at his side: "Who are they? What do they want?" his voice was completely calm.

"I honestly don't know who they are, but they say that they want you in exchange for him," Lestrade said quietly.

"Why?"

"I don't know," Greg said in defeat. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, trying desperately to think of what to do next.

Sherlock cursed. Lestrade looked at him in surprise but said nothing.

"What are you going to do?" Sherlock asked then, echoing Greg's own thoughts. He had asked it flatly, as if nothing was wrong and he was simply inquiring into Greg's weekend plans. This tone surprised the detective inspector, but he knew that it was a facade... it had to be.

"We may have to comply – or pretend to – in order to get him back," Lestrade said evenly.

"You're suggesting a trap?"

"Yes, perhaps. Would you be willing to – "

"Of course," Sherlock replied before the question had been fully asked. Would Sherlock be the bait? Without a second thought. They needed to get John back.

"Sir you know that we can't do that, even if we wanted to," Sgt. Donovan, who had been eavesdropping by the office door, chimed in. "It's against protocol."

"Get out of my office," Lestrade snapped.

She disappeared swiftly after casting a warning glance at her boss.

"That was uncharacteristically rude of you," Sherlock commented.

"I promise Sherlock, I'm going to do _whatever _it takes to get him back."

"Thank you," was all Sherlock could trust himself to say. The panicky feeling was rising and threatening to strangle him. He needed air... he needed to think. He needed John.

Lestrade felt as though he could snap. The weight of the most challenging case of his career had just been compounded by the abduction of a good friend. However, John wasn't only important to Lestrade as a friend; he was also an important asset when it came to Sherlock. Lestrade knew that John was Sherlock's rock and his moral compass. Since their meeting Lestrade could see that John had the potential to be the one responsible for turning this great detective into a good man. Since Sherlock had lost his sight, Lestrade had witnessed a new level of devotion and patience from John that was, frankly, inspiring. He wished that his wife had shown him even one-tenth of the loyalty that John seemed to have for Sherlock.

Less than two days ago Lestrade had watched as the exhausted doctor soldiered on and read every note and described every scrap of evidence until he was falling asleep and Sherlock had practically carried him home. He knew that Sherlock had to be more upset than he seemed. He was about to possibly lose the only thing left to him in the world – his best friend. Lestrade would _not_ let that happen. Even if his intentions were entirely selfish – which they were not – the truth remained that: he needed Sherlock, and Sherlock was useless without John.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Sherlock pushed.

...

Somewhere on the other side of London, John was cursing his luck. His hands were chained behind his back and his crudely bandaged shoulder was burning and throbbing in indescribable pain. He was certain the bullet had shattered his left clavicle, but – despite the pain – his injury was far from the first thing on his mind.

His heart had sunk when Lestrade promised to save him. He knew for certain now that Lestrade and Sherlock were planning some great scheme to rescue him and that they were going to walk right into a trap. He knew that this entire crime had been orchestrated so that his abductors could get a clear shot at Sherlock, and there was no way in hell he was going to let these bastards get what they wanted.

John had recently discovered that, in actual fact, the entire hangman case had been a ruse to bring Sherlock out of hiding. John had managed to piece that much together from the snippets of conversation and muffled telephone conversation he had overheard. It made sense now why the serial killer didn't have a select victim type: because it wasn't just one murderer – it was a group of people all working together – and the victims had not been specific targets, only unfortunate people who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

The murders had begun shortly after Sherlock had gone into hospital. They had been designed to bring him out into the public eye once again. Ever since the fateful fall, Sherlock had been very good at avoiding cases with too much publicity and – even though his name had been cleared – he had only begun working again once he knew that he could, once again, operate under the radar. Though he had encouraged John to continue blogging and to try and gather a quiet following of people who were in need of Sherlock's help, he no longer needed an audience to acknowledge his genius, and he never wanted to face another Moriarty. Only, now, here John was, stuck in the middle of another elaborate scheme designed to make Sherlock 'come out and play'... but this time, the opponents weren't playing. They wanted Sherlock Holmes stone-dead and were going to use this trade-off as a way to do it.

John was certain they had leapt to such extremes because they had lost their only clue as to Sherlock's movements and whereabouts: John's blog. He hadn't updated since the case which had taken Sherlock's eye-sight. As a result, these maniacs had taken matters into their own hands to try and find him: they had invented a serial killer to get him back to work and to place him right where they wanted him.

John also knew that his abduction had not been a part of the original plan. He had just made matters easier for them. The abductors/hit-men had been lying in wait at Westminster Abby for Sherlock to come and investigate. Why they hadn't shot him when he and John had visited the scene of the crime earlier that day, John did not know. However, he did know, that they hadn't expected John to return to the scene of the crime alone. They had simply seen it as an opportunity and acted.

John had decided to go back there in an attempt to come up with a workable theory to help Sherlock with the case. He had gone in secret – and thus lied to Sherlock – because he knew that Sherlock would have gone with him, and he wanted to be able to prove that he could really help. All he had managed to do was mess things up even worse for the great detective.

One moment he had been standing on the sidewalk musing over the mystery of how one could hang a body out in plain view without getting caught, and the next he'd woken up with a splitting headache in a filthy flat in one of the roughest parts of London. They had shot him when he nearly escaped through the window. The shot caused him to lose his footing on the stairs and he'd landed hard on the second landing of the fire-escape, clutching his wound and clenching his jaw to keep from screaming in pain. They'd dragged him inside and roughly bandaged him up – through a lot of cursing and verbal abuse – before making the call to Lestrade.

John had tried to tell Lestrade not to come. He'd tried to tell him that it was a trap, but Lestrade's questions had interrupted him and when he was finally able to get out a warning the abductors had snatched the phone away so quickly he wasn't able to utter another word. The larger man's angry right-hook had hit in hard in the jaw, instantly causing mild dizziness, sever pain, and a cut on the inside of John's cheek which had bled for some time, tainting his mouth with the taste of iron. However, it luckily had not caused a fractured jaw – though, the mark was already beginning to form a nasty bruise and mild swelling.

John had sat in tortured silence while the details of the meeting were arranged and the conversation quickly ended. He knew that they would kill him also once Sherlock made his appearance. How could he warn Sherlock? What could he do? How to get away? What would Sherlock tell him to do in this situation? _Come on, John, think... observe..._What was there to work with? How could he contact help? Suddenly he became aware of the fact that he had been shivering, and the sickly feeling of nausea washed over him.

"Oh no," he groaned aloud. He was experiencing the symptoms of shock.

_They must not have tied the bandage tight enough..._ he thought, and now he had lost more blood than he'd realized. These symptoms setting in meant that he needed to get to a hospital quickly if he hoped to survive. He looked wildly around the room. He needed to do something to slow the progression of symptoms. His thought process was becoming unclear and his vision blurry. He did his best to lie down, and was greeted with a sharp stabbing pain in his left shoulder from the movement. He needed a blanket... some way to keep warm. His thoughts continued to get more and more unfocused... what was he just doing? Where was he? He felt himself losing consciousness. Through the haze of scattered thoughts a vague feeling of unease warned him that something bad would happen if he fell asleep. He shook his head... _Stay awake... Come on, John... You've got to stay awake..._


	16. One Hour

"Is everything ready?" Sherlock asked once Lestrade returned to the office.

The past hour had been pure torment. After the phone call Lestrade had disappeared to bark orders at his subordinates and get the essential people and information needed to pull off his plan. Sherlock had remained, forgotten, alone, and useless, in the office to wait for his own orders. His thoughts had been continuously and unfailingly on John. Though _he_ was not conscious of the gravity of these thoughts, their significance would not have been lost upon his best friend, had he known at that time what Sherlock was thinking. Sherlock was worried. He had sat in silence and – full of anxiety – had allowed himself to imagine the worst and best scenarios. He had analyzed and dissected the situation, and had imagined all kinds of potential outcomes, but none of this reasoning had been done in the objective manner to which he was accustomed. That he had opened himself up enough to be worried about another human being had not yet dawned on him. Worry was one emotion he had never felt – before John, that is – and now he was experiencing it in all of its potency.

The audio wrist-watch that he had initially scorned had long since become an essential part of his anatomy. It was completely indispensible. However, only a moment ago, the slow passage of time had made Sherlock want to rip it off and smash it against the wall. Lestrade's entrance had been the watch's saving grace.

"Yes," Lestrade said as he took a seat, "Now we just have to wait."

"Wait? For what?"

"Six O'clock. That's the meeting time."

Before either of them could make another sound Greg's mobile phone rang. He glanced at the screen: blocked number. He opened it up and switched it on speaker phone. "Hello?"

"Plans have changed." A familiar and authoritative voice stated in the purest of proper British accents.

Sherlock sat bolt up-right in his chair, "Mycroft?" The question in his voice was the result of surprise. He'd had no doubt that it was his brother, but he had had no clue as to why his brother would be calling Lestrade at that moment.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked Mycroft in surprise.

"Sherlock will not be used as bait," the older Holmes brother ordered.

"Oh? Won't I?" Sherlock said darkly.

"This is none of your concern," Mycroft said dismissively to his younger brother, "It is a matter of national importance and I will handle it."

"I'm not going to just sit around while you and your buffoons play with John's life," Sherlock snapped.

"Trust me, little brother, I am the only one who can save John Watson. Your interference will only endanger more lives."

"Really? Well how about you enlighten us to your plan then," Sherlock demanded snarkily.

"Lestrade?" Mycroft called, choosing to completely ignore his little brother's comment.

"Yes," Lestrade piped up, "I'm still here."

"I hereby order your men to stand down. They are not to be involved in this in anyway. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now take me off speaker phone."

Lestrade did as he was told, "Yes?"

"I want you to promise me that you won't let him out of your sight."

"Why?"

"I don't want him involved in this. It's too risky. Promise."

"Ok," Lestrade replied firmly.

"I'll be in touch when I have John," he said before hanging up without waiting for a reply.

Lestrade snapped the phone shut and released a long slow breath through his nostrils.

"I will not just sit back and do nothing," Sherlock stated forcibly, "You may have to do what my brother tells you, but I certainly do not."

"You're not going anywhere," Lestrade replied just as firmly, "At least not without me."

"What?"

"I've just promised your brother not to let you out of my sight, you see, so I'm afraid I have to go wherever you do... Though I don't think a renegade rescue mission was exactly what he had in mind."

"You would honestly put your job – and probably your life – in danger to help me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I believe it is the right thing to do... and because you need me."

Sherlock reflected for a moment. With a smile he uttered the same words Lestrade had said in response to him over three years ago, "Yes, I do... God help me."

The allusion was not lost on Lestrade who suddenly felt an immense amount of respect for the eccentric genius. "But listen, Sherlock, we do need to think... we can't just go rushing in – "

At that moment Lestrade's office phone rang again. He glanced at it in surprise but snapped into action and picked up before the second ring: "Hello?" There was a short pause and Sherlock could make out the familiar deep voice at the other end of the line.

"... wait!" Lestrade called but the line was dead. He slammed the phone down with a huff.

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded, "Who was it?"

"It was them... they've moved the time up."

"To when?"

"We have less than an hour."


	17. Chaos

Sherlock stood up and unsteadily headed for the office door.

"What are you doing?"

"You can think of your plan on the way," he said sharply.

"Sherlock, we have to be rational," Greg began, following Sherlock out of the office, "We don't know anything about these people. We don't know what they want. If we had time to prepare a plan maybe this could work, but rushing in like this is dangerous. Maybe it _would_ be best to let Mycroft handle it... Use your head!"

"I am!" He snapped back, "They want _me_. That is the only thing they asked for. Whoever this is, their reasons must be personal. If they are anything like the other opponents I've faced, they will not negotiate for anything other than what they want."

"Not all terrorists are like Moriarty."

Sherlock stopped dead and Lestrade had to sidestep to avoid bumping into him. He turned to Lestrade, his voice low and urgent: "Why would they move the time up?" he demanded. "Why? What possible reason could they have?"

"I don't know..." Greg struggled, "Maybe they were afraid they'd given us too much time to think?"

"No. If that was it, why didn't they just give us one hour in the beginning? They planned this, they chose six pm specifically. There had to be a reason, something they needed to do before then… Therefore, something must have happened that forced them to change their plans..." Sherlock was walking again, his movements were hesitant even though his tone was authoritative. "Either they know that Mycroft has gotten involved... or something's gone wrong."

"Gone wrong?"

"Yes, something they weren't expecting."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. But it could give us an edge. It could mean that they are just as flustered and ill-prepared as we are and that can be taken advantage of."

"How?"

"Think! It means they no longer have such a drastic advantage. We are on an even playing field. For whatever reason, they need to get this over-with quickly. They're in a desperate hurry, and therefore, are far more likely to make a mistake."

"That also makes the situation more volatile," Greg said cautiously, "They won't be hanging around for any lengthy negotiations. We're going to need a strategy."

"We'll figure it out on the way," Sherlock said and almost walked into an office divider.

Without thinking, Lestrade reached out and pulled Sherlock over so that he avoided the impact. Sherlock tensed in surprise and impulsively struck him.

Greg blinked a few times, stunned by the immediate reaction that he never could have predicted.

"Why did you do that?" Sherlock snapped before Greg was able to demand the same question of him.

"You were about to walk into something," Lestrade said in defense.

"Don't do that ever again," Sherlock ordered unapologetically. His tone was menacing.

"Sorry," Greg replied quietly, not really understanding what had just happened.

Sherlock's mind was racing. The start that Greg had just given him hadn't helped. He honestly hadn't meant to hit him; he just hated the feeling of losing control. Being pulled roughly aside like that was startling even for people who could see, and Sherlock was certainly not used to being manhandled. He pushed Lestrade's feelings out of his mind and tried hard to focus on the task at hand… how was this to be accomplished? What, in fact, was the plan?

...

"Do you think Mycroft knows they've changed the time?" Lestrade asked, breaking the silence. He and Sherlock were sitting in the back of a cab. It was an unusual scenario, but Lestrade couldn't take an official police car on unofficial business. If he was going to do this, he would have to do it as a citizen and damn the consequences.

"Though it is likely, we should assume that he doesn't," Sherlock stated.

Gregory discretely pulled out his mobile phone. He would text Mycroft to make certain. He had known as soon as they had received the kidnapper's call that Sherlock was going to pull a crazy stunt like this and figured the only way to stop him was to be with him when he tried something stupid. Sherlock's unusual behavior had not been lost on the detective inspector: he was acting irrational and completely unlike Sherlock. Sure, he _seeemed _calm as a cucumber, but his actions were telling Greg a very different story. Sherlock had to be painfully aware of his predicament: he was blind, he had no idea who was orchestrating this or how many of them there were… he didn't even have any clues, never mind facts! And he was rushing head-long into a suicide mission. Then it hit him…

Greg studied Sherlock for a moment. The consulting detective had folded his right leg overtop of his left so that his right ankle rested on his left knee. His right hand rested on his right knee and he absently fidgeted with the material there. Greg watched as the long musician's fingers of Sherlock's left hand tapped impatiently on the armrest of the cab door, and made his own deduction: though he was trying desperately to appear nonchalant, Sherlock was worried. He wasn't acting crazy, he was acting completely human! He was acting as any other sane, rational, _caring _person would if the person they loved had been abducted. Sherlock was being _normal_, and that was what had made everything seem so abnormal.

"Sherlock, what is that?" Lestrade said then, noticing a bulge in the back of Sherlock's jacket.

"What?"

"That can't be a gun," Lestrade said in disbelief. "Sherlock, you can't – "

"We may need it, and I have an amazing sense of hearing, Greg," Sherlock replied flatly. That was also how he knew that Greg had just texted his brother the latest case details. He may not have been able to read what was said, but he knew Lestrade, and he was far too sensible to truly attempt a suicide mission. Sherlock had said nothing because – as much as he hated to admit it – he recognized that they truly needed Mycroft's help.

Somehow, Sherlock knew that all of this came down to Mycroft. He had been wracking his brain in silence; searching for any clue as to who could be behind this. The only conclusion he could come to was that Mycroft was somehow involved and had been for a long time before John was abducted. 'A matter of national security,' he had said… but it didn't fit. How was Sherlock's safety a matter of national security? Why did these people want him? His only conclusion was that Mycroft had gotten himself into something big – big enough to put the only living member of his family in danger. John was simply a casualty of war, not a direct target.

"There's no way I'm letting you carry a gun," Lestrade continued stubbornly.

"Just try and stop me," Sherlock said threateningly.

"This is nuts... We can't be doing this," Greg said, suddenly realizing the situation they were about to enter completely unaided. _Mycroft better have his damn phone on,_ he thought anxiously. The entire scenario was completely insane! Gregory Lestrade would never in a million years do this. It was completely illogical. He felt there could only be two possible outcomes: bad, or worse. The worse possible outcome was that everyone lost their lives; the best possible outcome was that they manage to survive, only to be thrown in jail on a number of different and creative charges – not to mention that he was most certainly going to be fired for this.

"If you don't want to help you can get out. Otherwise, shut up," Sherlock replied.

Lestrade's cell vibrated then.

"What was that?" Sherlock asked.

Greg pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open: _My men are on their way - MH_

"My phone," Lestrade replied, "Sgt. Donovan wants to know where the hell I am."

"What are you going to tell her?" Sherlock asked, keeping up the ruse.

"Nothing, It's none of her business."

A subtle, knowing, smile crept across Sherlock's lips. Lestrade had instantly relaxed after opening that phone… Mycroft was on the way.

...

They soon reached the meeting spot: an unused flour mill on the edge of town. The gate had been severely damaged. It was twisted, rusty, and only held together by weak hinges and a lose chain. After paying and dismissing the cabbie, they slipped under the chain and entered the wide concrete yard. It was littered with industrial garbage bins, barrels, and motorized equipment such as rusty fork-lifts and beat-up trolleys that had been abandoned long ago.

Sherlock's hand rested lightly on Lestrade's shoulder as he allowed himself to be guided through this strange obstacle course. They approached the main building slowly. Its massive sliding door was wide open and its vast, dark, and mostly empty interior laid bare to the elements.

Lestrade had drawn his weapon before entering the yard. His heart raced as he stood on the edge of a drastic decision. They were still under cover, as large objects were scattered to both their left and right, but he did not yet feel prepared to step out into the completely open and unprotected space between where they now stood and the factory's open door. He scanned the area… nothing. It was quiet. He was beginning to wonder if the kidnappers had even shown up yet when he saw it and stopped dead in his tracks.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock hissed. He was straining to hear anything, any sound at all. Then suddenly: _click._

"It's a trap!" Greg snarled and shoved Sherlock down behind one of the large bins. Two rounds were shot in their direction, one nearly missing Greg's left ear as he dove down beside the disoriented detective.

"What did you see?" Sherlock demanded. "Where's John?"

The answer to both of Sherlock's questions was the same. Greg had seen John lying in a seemingly lifeless heap close to the mill door. It was John's presence that had alerted him to their danger.

"Greg, _do you see John_?" Sherlock demanded. His emotions were threatening to rise up in panic. Despite their secure position, the enemy continued to barrage the area with bullets. The sound of the guns berated Sherlock's sensitive ears and caused a strange disorientation making the already chaotic scene far worse for him. What was happening? _Where was John?_

Lestrade spun around and shot off a couple of answering rounds – taking the chance to glance around the area before ducking back undercover. He crouched low beside Sherlock and took aim once again. He was being very careful not to hit anyone – at least, not to hit them anywhere too important. Despite his danger, he was still painfully aware of the fact that the law could not protect his actions if he killed someone as a regular citizen and – if he ever made it out of there – there was no way he was going to prison.

"Greg!" Sherlock practically screamed.

"He's on the ground about thirty feet to our right. I don't know if he's alive or not and the area is completely exposed – Sherlock!" Greg called after him.

Before Greg had been aware of what was happening Sherlock had lunged out from behind the bins and ran in John's direction. He felt several bullets whip by him, but continued moving – trusting in the knowledge that moving targets are much more difficult to hit, and that Lestrade would cover him. He kept low to the ground with one arm held up in front of him like a shield and the other brushing the ground to keep himself balanced. Suddenly he tripped over something soft and landed down hard on the ground wedged between John's limp body and a brick wall. He struggled to right himself.

"John?" he called as his hands came into contact with John's chest. Sherlock felt the soft fabric of cable-knit jumper mingled with mud and dried blood. "John?" he called again, gently shaking his friend in desperation. He moved his hand up to John's shoulder, there he felt the bloody bandages that had been wound sloppily around the wound. He fumbled to find a pulse, but was unsuccessful. He then gently ran his fingers over John's face to make sure that it was in fact him; though his skin felt cold and unfamiliar, there was no doubt that it was John who lay unconscious in his arms. Sherlock then leaned down close to him until he felt John's nose brush his cheek and, with one hand on John's chest and his face down beside John's, Sherlock struggled to swallow the panic, drown out the sound of the gunshots, and just _feel_.

"Come on John," he murmured as fear constricted his chest making it hard to breathe. Then he felt it: John's warm breath floating softly against his cheek, John's chest slowly and weakly rising and falling beneath his palm, John's rapid, struggling, heartbeat beneath his fingertips… John was alive.


	18. Soul Mates

The warm, pink, early-morning sun peaked through the soft curtains and danced in patterns on the immaculate, hard, white floor. Sherlock sat quietly by John's bedside. The private hospital room smelled of disinfectant. The entire scenario felt alien and uncomfortable to Sherlock who had spent the past hour between pacing and trying to find a comfortable way to sit in those unbelievably uncomfortable chairs. John was sleeping soundly after hours of surgery. Sherlock had only been able to speak to him for a moment after his ordeal – after he'd finally awoken from under the influence of the anesthetic:

"Sherlock? Where…? What's…?"

Sherlock heard the fabric of the pillow move as John struggled to look around the room in his confusion.

"It's alright, John, everything is fine," Sherlock had comforted.

"Thank God you're alright," John had breathed.

Sherlock was taken aback by John's statement. John was the one lying in the hospital bed and he was had been worried about Sherlock's safety?

"Can I get you anything?" Sherlock asked, awkwardly trying to make John feel more comfortable.

"Mmmm," John hummed absently, fighting the strange fatigue. The drugs were still in his system and he was finding it hard to keep his eyes open.

"Sleep now, John," Sherlock gently ordered. "We will talk once you've recovered a little."

John had so many questions, but none of them would take the form of words, so he'd given into the drowsiness and floated back to sleep.

Sherlock listened to John's slow even breathing. He wanted to know if John was comfortable, if there was anything he should be doing to ensure that he was sleeping his best. He reached out to him, touching his shoulder first – it was the left one. His touch had been so light that he'd barely brushed over the place of injury – afraid that he may cause John pain – but he'd felt the thickness of the bandages beneath the hospital gown fabric. He slid his fingertips down the left arm until he came into contact with a stiff sling – John would have to wear it for several weeks to keep his arm from moving and affecting the healing process. Sherlock than was stuck by an idea, he needed to make sure John was warm. He ran his fingers lightly across John's chest, searching for the blankets, but there were none, just the thin fabric of the hospital gown. Sherlock reached over him to slide his hand down John's right arm. He soon found that John's right hand was gripping the missing covers lightly by his side. They must have somehow fallen down to his lap when he'd awoken earlier. Sherlock gently moved John's limp hand and took hold of the fabric, adjusting the covers over John's chest to keep him warm. Each touch was swift and gentle – a mere caress. He did not want to risk waking the sleeping doctor. He needed his rest. Sherlock settled back again and wondered if there was anything else he could do.

After a few moments his mind began to wander and swiftly flitted to the tense moments back at the mill...

He had been cradling John's limp body close to him, hoping and praying for signs of life. Once John's warm breath wafted again his cheek he'd felt relief wash over him in a dizzying wave – then he'd realized how perilous their position was. Greg had told him that the area was completely exposed. How were they still alive? As if awakening out of a dream, the dizzying sound of the gun shots suddenly rang clear in his ears – there seemed to be so many! What was happening? He strained to hear what the shouting voices were calling over the gunfire but couldn't make out a word. All he could do was sit and pray that help would get to them soon. He couldn't move John's body because he had no idea which way to go. He wasn't even sure how he had managed to get over to John so quickly and without being shot himself. With his right arm underneath John's back he reached over and applied pressure to the back of the doctor's wounded shoulder – the crude bandages were completely soaked with blood. He could smell it faintly now and feel the sticky substance on his hand. With his other hand he'd applied pressure to the front of the wound and then done the only useful thing he could think to do: he had leaned over John as much as possible, ducking his own head low and protecting John from chance of further injury by using his own body as a shield.

After what seemed like hours the sounds had slowly ceased and rough hands had grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and attempted to pull him away from John. He'd lashed out at the culprit hitting him square in the face, knocking him back.

"Sherlock!" A familiar voice had admonished, "It's alright! He's on our side."

"Lestrade?"

"He's one of Mycroft's men."

The now inured man groaned and shuffled away and another man approached – Sherlock nearly took a swing at him too.

"Sherlock! He's a medic!" Lestrade called before the man had a chance to speak and just before Sherlock took another swing.

"Calm down sir, I'm not going to hurt anyone," the medic said, "I need to take a look at your friend."

"He's my partner," Sherlock corrected. He knew that only close family members were allowed to accompany someone in an ambulance – and even then, only if the paramedics allowed it. There was no way he was being separated from John, if he had to lie to get was he wanted so be it. "And I want to go with him in the ambulance," he demanded.

"Fine, just let me have a look at him," the medic replied while gently touching Sherlock on the shoulder causing him to flinch.

"He's breathing and his pulse is steady, though weak," Sherlock rhymed off as he reluctantly released John into the care of the professionals.

He'd kept constant contact with John all the way to the hospital. With one hand he had held John's while his other had rested on his wrist – taking comfort in the beat of his pulse.

…

During the surgery Lestrade had checked in with Sherlock to explain the details of what had happened. Essentially Mycroft's men had arrived just in time. Lestrade had focused on keeping the shooters occupied while Sherlock pulled his stupid stunt of running out in the open only to sit there like a bulls-eye target. Lestrade had managed to wound a couple of men – there had been about five in total. Mycroft's men had shown up a couple of moments later and effectively ended the shootout with their well-trained gunmen. The man himself had appeared on scene shortly after Sherlock and John had left in the ambulance. Mycroft hadn't told Greg anything about the details of how this crazy event had begun, but he _had_ ensured that he wouldn't be fired for his part in the event. In fact, according to official records, Lestrade hadn't been there at all – Mycroft was that powerful.

…

Mycroft showed up at the hospital shortly after John's surgery was over. At first, Sherlock had refused to talk to him:

"Going to be like that are we?" Mycroft asked when Sherlock did not return his greeting. "You have no right to be angry; I saved John's life – not to mentions yours."

"You put him in danger in the first place," Sherlock retorted.

"You don't know the first thing about it."

"Don't you have somewhere you need to be?"

"I cleared my schedule."

"Whatever for?"

"I thought you could use some company," though it was said flatly, Mycroft had sincerely hoped that his brother would accept this small offer of company as a token of apology. He was worried about him, worried about what the events of the past couple of days would drive him to do.

Sherlock smirked, "How quaint."

"Well, since that doesn't appear to be the case…" Mycroft began, but let the sentence drop and turned to walk down the hall.

Sherlock listened with satisfaction to his retreating footsteps. They stopped just as abruptly as they had begun, "Sherlock," Mycroft called back over his shoulder, "tell John that I'm sorry, will you?"

Sherlock completely ignored him, turned sharply, and, using the wall as a guide, walked back into John's room. He remained there in silence as time passed unnoticed.

…

"Sherlock?" John's voice was quiet and groggy. He coughed to clear his throat.

"Would you like some water, John?" Sherlock offered.

"What happened?"

"You were abducted, shot, and beaten."

John rolled his eyes. Though Sherlock hadn't been able to see, he could hear the action in John's tone of voice: "I remember that part. I mean how did you rescue me?"

"The kidnappers called Lestrade and arranged the meeting. We simply followed their instructions," Sherlock said, making light of the situation.

"But how did you get out of there alive? They wanted to kill you. I heard them talking…"

"It's not important, John."

"It is to me! I want to know."

"Have Lestrade tell you sometime, the story is tedious."

John released a deep breath through his nostrils in irritation, but didn't push the issue.

"Are you comfortable?" Sherlock asked.

"Fine, yes, when can I go home?"

"Soon. How is your shoulder? Are you in pain?" he pushed.

"Nothing I can't manage. I've been through this before, remember? And the hospital was nowhere near as nice."

Sherlock's expression turned very serious. The change was alarming. His dull, grey, eyes stared through John unseeingly and his mouth was set in a hard, straight line.

"Sherlock? What is it?" John asked in alarm.

"You are being honest with me, John, aren't you?"

"Of course," John said in surprise.

"You know that I can't tell."

"Sherlock, I swear, I'm being completely honest. If I'm in pain or uncomfortable I'll let you know."

"Good."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I'm hungry."

"Yes, of course, I'll send someone to fetch you food," he got up to leave but John stopped him.

"No, nevermind. I'll get something soon enough."

"Are you certain?" Sherlock turned towards him in surprise.

John was amazed at how fluid Sherlock's movements were. He was blind, and still so uncertain in many ways, but – though he may not know his way – he refused to cower in the darkness. He struggled to know his surroundings no matter how unfamiliar. He seemed to already know the direct dimensions of this room, John could tell by the way he skirted around the end of the bed without slowing or stumbling.

"Yes, I can wait."

The truth was that he didn't want to make Sherlock leave the room. He knew it would be a struggle for him to find someone to get John's food in this strange environment, and he didn't want to put him through that.

Sherlock turned slowly and reproached the bedside, but he didn't sit down. Instead he stood incredibly close to John, he lifted his hand as if to touch him, but stopped.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked in confusion.

"I realized yesterday that I have no idea what you look like, John. That might be important for future reference."

"What are you talking about? You've lived with me for nearly three years!"

"Yes, but I've never had a reason to touch you in all of that time… I discovered quickly that you look quite different now that I can't see you."

The memory of the unfamiliar feel of John's cool skin had driven Sherlock to this moment. He had trusted Lestrade, his senses, and deductive reasoning to tell him that the man in his arms had been John, but he didn't like that he really didn't know for certain what John felt like. Though he sincerely hoped that he would ever have to identify John's nearly lifeless body ever again, he needed to know that he could.

"Oh," John said, suddenly realizing what Sherlock meant. "Sherlock, were you the one who found me?"

"Yes."

John let that knowledge sink in for a moment, "So how did you know that it was me?"

"You had an injured left shoulder," Sherlock replied flatly.

John smiled.

"May I?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure," John replied nonchalantly, though he felt a strange sense of apprehension rising in his chest.

Sherlock reached out to him hesitantly and John gently took his hand and guided it to his cheek.

Sherlock gingerly raised his other hand to John's face and carefully felt his forehead and eyebrows; he ran his thumbs down the bridge of his nose and across his cheekbones, his finger tips brushed lightly against his eyelids and across his lips – sending a strange shiver down John's spine. Then the detective abruptly dropped his hands to his sides.

Sherlock had seared every detail into his permanent memory. He would never forget what John looked like now. "Thank you," he said quietly.

John leaned back and chuckled to himself suddenly.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked with curiosity.

"Nothing, it's just that… It's been one hell of a month."

Sherlock returned a genuine smile, "Yes, I suppose it has," he agreed as he realized that it had been less than a month since he himself had been lying in one of those beds.

A strategic cough from the doorway alerted the two men to Lestrade's presence. Unbeknownst to the two friends, he had entered the room quietly a moment before, but had not wanted to interrupt their moment.

"Greg!" John said happily.

"How are you, John?" Letrade asked.

"Fine. Would be much better if I could be home though. I hate hospitals."

"You sure picked the right profession then," Lestrade said pointing out the irony.

Watson smiled, "I guess I'm just not used to being the patient."

"I will go find you a nurse. You should have food," Sherlock said then and headed for the door.

"Thanks," John replied, watching him go. He was actually hungry.

"Well, it seems that everything is going well between you two," Greg said as he casually reclined in Sherlock's seat beside the bed.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. You seem to be doing well… the last few weeks have been stressful for you both. It could have really affected your relationship."

"Lestrade, we've been through this," John said trying to suppress the exasperation in his tone, "We're not a couple."

"I find that incredibly hard to believe," the Detective Inspector responded. "Especially after what's happened. You should have seen him yesterday…"

"Why? What do you mean?"

"He just wasn't himself. He was really worried about you…"

"He's a good friend."|

"Oh, come on!" Greg said in exasperation, "Surely you're not that daft. He must be more than that!"

John took a deep breath. How could he explain? It was so complicated…

"Listen," he said leaning close and looking very seriously into Lestrade's eyes, "Sherlock and I…" he suddenly couldn't keep the eye contact, he sat back and thought for a moment, before taking a deep breath and beginning again, "Sherlock and I are soul-mates," he admitted quietly, surprised at his own realization, "It's not really something I can explain... it's just that... he's been a part of my life in a way that no one else ever will be. For some strange reason, we need each other and probably always will. But I'm not gay," he said with conviction, meeting Greg's eyes once again, "It can never be – _will_ never be – more than true friendship."

Silence fell for a moment while Lestrade studied John's face. "Ok," Lestrade said frankly, "I get it. At least, I think I do. …I'll keep my opinions out of it."

"Thank you," John said sincerely.

Sherlock leaned back against the wall. He was standing just outside of John's room. He had never heard John define their relationship in such a way before. He had no idea that John had ever even thought that deeply about their friendship. Though, he had to admit, it was probably because he had never bothered to stop and think about it himself – except for the very first day after they had met when John was interrogating him about his love life. The fact that Sherlock cared deeply for John was obvious. The fact that John had just admitted to harbouring the same level of affection for Sherlock was shockingly and extremely important to him, but, other than that, Sherlock had never ever considered a relationship with John, or anyone else for that matter. John was not gay, and Sherlock had never bothered to find out whether he was or not. All he knew was that normal people didn't like him, and he had never cared much for them either. The only person in his life who mattered was John, and he liked things the way they were, simple, uncomplicated, and honest. Had he ever felt a sexual attraction to John? No. He had to admit that – though he'd never thought about it –he certainly would have noticed if he had, therefore, he hadn't. Granted, John had caused him to feel a great many things over the three years that they had known each other: fear, pride, anxiety, concern, shame, embarrassment, happiness, a sense of accomplishment, fulfillment, even love in some of its forms. Many, if not all, of these feelings had been completely new and alien to him, but they had been a powerful and significant part of his life since John's arrival. He was grateful and eternally indebted to his loyal blogger. His soul-mate, in the purest form of the word... he and John were simply two people who utterly completed each other. They were dependent upon one another, but also individuals with very different views of the world. John was his moral compass and guide, and he was the person who assuaged John's thirst for adventure and passion for danger – and they would always be that to each other. If John was honestly content with the way things were, that's how things would stay.

At that moment, any secret fear of losing John he had still harboured vanished. They were soul-mates. They needed each other, and nothing was ever going to change that.


	19. Catching up

Sherlock waited silently outside in the hallway until he heard John and Lestrade's conversation turn from the details of last night's events to more mundane, normal, conversation, before he re-entered the room.

"Dinner is on its way he announced."

"Great! I really am starving," John admitted. He didn't ask Sherlock what had taken so long, but hoped that he hadn't had to go far to find someone.

"I don't doubt it," Sherlock replied. "Did they feed you?"

"No. They weren't very hospitable at all actually. Didn't even offer me a cuppa," John said jokingly. He got the reaction he had wanted, but only from Greg who smiled politely. Sherlock stood stone faced at the end of the bed.

"Well, I'll get going and leave you two to catch up on everything," Lestrade said kindly. As he walked past Sherlock he caught himself from almost patting him on the shoulder – he didn't want to be hit again, but he was finding it incredibly difficult to remember that even the smallest, casual, and unexpected touch could startle and unsettle the great detective.

"Hope you get well soon," He added.

"Thanks," John replied with a nod.

"Good day Detective Inspector," Sherlock added politely.

"So, Lestrade filled me in," John said after Greg had left.

"Oh?"

"You're a bloody idiot."

Sherlock was a little taken-aback by the adjective. He had been called a lot of things, but an idiot is one he'd never accept. "That's a little inaccurate, don't you think?"

"Nope, I'm pretty sure it sums up everything nicely."

"To what are you referring?"

"To the stunt you pulled – where you trying to get yourself killed?" John scolded.

"I was trying to save you."

"Yes, well, that's what we have police for isn't it?" John said the rebuke half-heartedly. He knew full-well that if the situation had been reversed he would have done the same.

"The police are useless."

John shook his head like an indulgent parent, and said nothing.

"So how come Mycroft came to the rescue?" John asked after a moment of reflection.

"As per usual, my brother chooses to shroud his actions in mystery rather than to give me the details we both deserve," Sherlock's tone was completely normal, but the bitterness he felt towards his infuriating brother threatened to rise up with each syllable. "From what I could piece together, the group had no idea who I was. They were involved in some plot threatening government security. I assume my brother has done something unforgiveable to their organization – probably attempted to stop them – and they wanted to force his hand."

"That's why they wanted you," John finished, "They thought that by threatening the only living relative – presumably the only close connection he has – he would let them do whatever they wanted?"

"No. I do believe they _were_ going to kill me. There was never a plan to negotiate my survival. It was done purely for cold-blooded revenge. I like villains like that, so straight-forward – incredibly practical. They probably knew that my brother would not negotiate for my life."

John was stunned and appalled by Sherlock's aside. Was that true? Would Mycrfot really not have given into them even to safe his brother's life?

"We were surprised when they moved the meeting time up..." Sherlock added.

"Oh? Why did they do that?"

"Because you'd gotten yourself shot."

"Oh, right, it was completely my fault. So sorry that I inconvenienced everyone," John said sarcastically.

"They needed to have bait and didn't want you to die on them before they shot me."

"I see."

"It was their mistake though, in the end."

"Oh?"

"They moved ahead without waiting for their boss to show up, at least, from what I can gather from Lestrade... According to him, my brother was in a foul mood when they couldn't find a certain body at the scene."

"So they were disorganized," John concluded.

"Yes, they messed up. They fired too soon. They were skittish and ill-prepared and that is probably the only reason Lestrade and I both survived. So you see, your getting shot actually aided in your rescue," he concluded.

John had forgotten to breath. The realization of how close they had both come to death was choking him.

"I'd like to know something," Sherlock added suddenly, "Where did you go two nights ago? Why did you lie to me about going out with Stamford?"

"Oh, right," John had hoped the tpoc wouldn't come up. "I went to the last crime scene."

"Why?"

"To try and help you solve the case."

"But why did you lie to me?"

"I wanted you to get some rest. You didn't need to come with me. I wanted to prove that I could really help... That I could do some of this detective work on my own."

"Why do you constantly feel that you have to prove yourself?" Sherlock asked in confusion.

"I don't know..." John said honestly, "I just... want to be useful. I honestly want to be a help. I often feel that my contributions are worthless because you've already thought of them..."

"But John, you have always been important!" Sherlock scolded, "You have always added a fresh point of view and new ideas – you are my inspiration! I get most of my best ideas from listening to you! Remember? You are a catalyst for inspiring genius."

"Yes, but just once I'd like to think of something you haven't already thought of," he said flatly.

"John, I need you now more than ever. You know that," Sherlock was speaking in earnest and his gentle tone took John by surprise, "I could never solve crimes in this condition alone. You will have to be more brilliant than ever to help me. But we need to work together, on everything. You need to be completely honest with me because if I can't trust you this cannot work."

"I'm sorry," John said quietly, realizing that he had deceived Sherlock twice in a very short time. "I guess I'm not used to being able to lie. I usually get caught."

"Yes, well, unfortunately I can no longer trust myself to doubt your word. And I don't want to. I need you to be the one thing in my life that I don't have to think about. I want to be able to take whatever you say as the gospel truth. Can you do that? Can you promise me that you will be completely honest?"

"I've always been honest with you on the things that really matter," John hedged. Could he swear to never lie to Sherlock again?

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied, "Your worst deceptions have always been a result of your attempts to protect me. That is what makes them so dangerous. Lying about how good my tea is, or how you don't mind me playing the violin, are relatively harmless – though in those cases completely pointless because my feelings would not be hurt by the fact that you hate how I make tea... But it all needs to stop. I cannot in good conscious continue working with you if I cannot trust you. It is a matter that affects both of our safety."

"Ok," John agreed, "I'll swear to stop lying, if you'll swear to do the same."

"What?" Sherlock asked in surprise.

"I know that you do it to. You have lied to and manipulated me more than once." The most important time being the deception regarding Mrs. Hudson just before Sherlock faked his death. He'd orchestrated both lies to save John's life, but it had greatly damaged their relationship for a time.

"Fine," Sherlock conceded.

"Shake on it?" John asked.

Sherlock offered his hand, and John took it in a firm handshake.

"Now," Sherlock said – all business. "What are we going to do about the hangman?"

"Hangman?" John asked in surprise, "Sherlock, there is no hangman."

"What?"

"The hangman was the group of criminals who abducted me. It was all a ruse to get to you – though I imagine putting fear into the hearts of every man, woman, and child in London didn't hurt their cause. I heard them talking." John watched as realization dawned on Sherlock's face.

"That's why the fact weren't' adding up..." he muttered to himself, "multiple killers... it was sloppy work, but brilliant!"

John suppressed a groan – Sherlock really could be insensitive. "That's why I was so surprised to see you alive. I knew that you were coming and I couldn't stop you, I thought for sure that..." he couldn't finish his sentence. His relief at finding Sherlock alive had been so great. When he'd opened his tired eyes and Sherlock's face was the first thing he saw he had been so happy and relieved he could have hugged him. He'd sat in silence for a moment just watching the oblivious detective, before the confusion had settled in and he'd begun to ask questions.

"So there is no case," Sherlock said in disappointment.

"Not right now anyway, though to be honest, I'm happy that there isn't. It's going to take a while for this to heal, and I'm sure I'm going to need physio. Maybe we could just relax for a little while and get back to normal."

"Normal is boring," Sherlock retorted, much like a spoiled child.

"Boring can be good sometimes, Sherlock."

* * *

**Author Note:**

I want to thank everyone so much for following this very long story through to its conclusion. Your comments and support have been amazing, and I have really, really appreciated all of you. You've given me the confidence to get back into writing! I have loved writing this story and – though Sherlock and John's adventures are nowhere near complete – I have decided that my plans for them would not fit into this story. Therefore, I am currently writing a sequel, which I have been planning for some time, and which will pick up right where this one has left off and take these wonderful men in a very different direction. So one again, my sincere thanks for your support!


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